THE   DARK 
-  FOREST^ 
"Bi/Hu^h  Wkilpole 


ANNE   DILLON 


THE  PARK  FOREST 

"Neither  quotation  nor  description  is  capable  of 
giving  more  than  a  bare  hint  of  the  nobleness, 
the  intensity  of  this  work  of  art  so  deeply  rooted 
in  reality."  New  York  rimes. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Ifrs.  Helen  A.  Dillon 


THE  DARK  FOREST 
HUGH    WALPOLE 


NOVELS  BY  HUGH  WALPOLE 


STUDIES  IN  PLACE 

THE  GOLDEN  SCARECROW 
THE  WOODEN  HORSE 
MARADICK  AT  FORTY 
THE  GODS  AND  MR.  PERRIN 

TWO  PROLOGUES 

THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 
FORTITUDE 

THE  RISING  CITY 

1.  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

2.  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


THE 

DARK  FOREST 


BY 

HUGH  WALPOLE 

AirraoR  or  "fortitude,"  "the  gou)en  scarecrow,' 

ETC.,  ETC. 


"But  the  fools,  because  they  cared  more  deeply,  were 
chosen.  .  .  .  " — Spanish  Nights  (Henry  Galleon) 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1916, 
By  Geobge  H.  Doban  Company 


Printed  in  the  UNITED  STATES  mf  AMERICA 


CoUego 
Library 


to 
KONSTANTINE  SAMOFF 

THIS  BOOK  18  DEDICATED 
BT  HIS  FRIEND  THE  AUTHOB 


1^60302 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/darkforestOOwalpiala 


CONTENTS 

PART  ONE 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I.  Spring  in  The  Train 11 

II.  The  School-House 38 

III.  The  Invisible  Battle 70 

IV.  NiKITIN 105 

V.  First  Move  to  The  Enemy 133 

VI.    The  Retreat 151 

VII.    One  Night 181 

PART  TWO 

I.  The  Lovers 209 

n.  Marie  Ivanovna 227 

III.  The  Forest 248 

IV.  Four? 270 

V.  The  Door  Closes  Behind  Them        ....  294 


PART  ONE 


PART  ONE 
CHAPTER   I 

SPEING    IN    THE    TEAIN 

T  TIS  was  the  first  figure  to  catch  my  eye  that  evening 
■*•  -^  in  Petrograd;  he  stood  under  the  dusky  lamp  in  the 
vast  gloomy  Warsaw  station,  with  exactly  the  expression 
that  I  was  afterwards  to  know  so  well,  impressed  not  only 
upon  his  face  hut  also  upon  the  awkwardness  of  his  arms 
that  hung  stifily  at  his  side,  upon  the  baggy  looseness  of  his 
trousers  at  the  knees,  the  unfastened  straps  of  his  long  black 
military  boots.  His  face,  with  its  mild  blue  eyes,  straggly 
fair  moustache,  expressed  anxiety  and  pride,  timidity  and 
happiness,  apprehension  and  confidence.  He  was  in  that 
first  moment  of  my  sight  of  him  as  helpless,  as  unpractical, 
and  as  anxious  to  please  as  any  lost  dog  in  the  world — and 
he  was  also  as  proud  as  Lucifer.  I  knew  him  at  once  for 
an  Englishman;  his  Russian  uniform  only  accented  the 
cathedral-town,  small  public-school  atmosphere  of  his  ap- 
pearance. He  was  exactly  what  I  had  expected.  He  was 
not,  however,  alone,  and  that  surprised  me.  By  his  side 
stood  a  girl,  obviously  Russian,  wearing  her  Sister's  uni- 
form with  excitement  and  eager  anticipation,  her  eyes  turn- 
ing restlessly  from  one  part  of  the  platform  to  another,  lis- 
tening with  an  impatient  smile  to  the  remarks  of  her  com- 
panion. 

From  where  I  stood  I  could  hear  his  clumsy,  hesitating 

11 


12  THE  DARK  FOREST 

Russian  and  her  swift,  preoccupied  replies.  I  came  up  to 
them. 

"Mr.  Trenchard  ?"  I  asked. 

He  blushed,  stammered,  held  out  his  hand,  missed  mine, 
blushed  the  more,  laughed  nervously. 

"I'm  glad  ...  I  knew  ...  I  hope  .  .  ." 

I  could  feel  that  the  girl's  eyes  were  upon  me  with  all  the 
excited  interest  of  one  who  is  expecting  that  every  moment 
of  her  new  wonderful  experience  will  be  of  a  stupendous, 
even  immortal  quality. 

"I  am  Sister  Marie  Ivanovna,  and  you  are,  of  course, 
Mr.  Durward,"  she  said.  "They  are  all  waiting  for  you 
— expecting  you — ^you're  late,  you  know!"  She  laughed 
and  moved  forward  as  though  she  would  accompany  me  to 
the  group  by  the  train.     We  went  to  the  train  together. 

"I  should  tell  you,"  she  said  quickly  and  suddenly  with 
nervousness,  "that  we  are  engaged,  Mr.  Trenchard  and  I 
— only  last  night.  We  have  been  working  at  the  same  hos- 
pital. ...  I  don't  know  any  one,"  she  continued  in  the 
same  intimate,  confiding  whisper.  "I  would  be  fright- 
ened terribly  if  I  were  not  so  excited.  Ah!  there's  Anna 
Mihailovna.  ...  I  know  her,  of  course.  It  was  through 
her  aunt — the  one  who's  on  Princess  SobolefF's  train — that 
I  had  the  chance  of  going  with  you.  Oh!  I'm  so  happy 
that  I  had  the  chance — if  I  hadn't  had  it  .  .  ." 

We  were  soon  engulfed  now.  I  drew  a  deep  breath  and 
surrendered  myself.  The  tall,  energetic  figure  of  Anna 
Mihailovna,  the  lady  to  whose  practical  business  gifts  and 
unlimited  capacity  for  compelling  her  friends  to  surrender 
their  last  bow  and  button  in  her  service  we  owed  the  exist- 
ence of  our  Red  Cross  unit,  was  to  be  seen  like  a  splendid 
flag  waving  its  followers  on  to  glory  and  devotion.  We 
were  devoted,  all  of  us.    Even  I,  whose  second  departure 


SPEING  IN  THE  TKAIN  13 

to  tlie  war  this  was,  had  after  the  feeblest  resistance  sur- 
rendered myself  to  the  drama  of  the  occasion.  I  should 
have  been  no  gentleman  had  I  done  otherwise. 

After  the  waters  had  closed  above  my  head  for,  perhaps, 
five  minutes  of  strangled,  half -protesting,  half-willing  sur- 
render I  was  suddenly  compelled,  by  what  agency  I  know 
not,  to  struggle  to  the  surface,  to  look  around  me,  and  then 
quite  instantly  to  forget  my  immersion.  The  figure  of 
Trenchard,  standing  exactly  as  I  had  left  him,  his  hands 
uneasily  at  his  sides,  a  half-anxious,  half-confident  smile 
on  his  lips,  his  eyes  staring  straight  in  front  of  him,  abso- 
lutely compelled  my  attention.  I  had  forgotten  him,  we 
had  all  forgotten  him,  his  own  lady  had  forgotten  him. 
I  withdrew  from  the  struggling,  noisy  group  and  stepped 
back  to  his  side-Vlt  was  then  that,  as  I  now  most  clearly 
remember,  I  was  conscious  of  something  else,  was  aware 
that  there  was  a  strange  faint  blue  light  in  the  dark  clumsy 
station,  a  faint  throbbing  glow,  that,  like  the  reflection  of 
blue  water  on  a  sunlit  ceiling,  hovered  and  hung  above  the 
ugly  shabbiness  of  the  engines  and  trucks,  the  rails  with 
scattered  pieces  of  paper  here  and  there,  the  iron  arms  that 
supported  the  vast  glass  roof,  the  hideous  funnel  that  hung 
with  its  gaping  mouth  above  the  water-tank.  The  faint 
blue  light  was  the  spring  evening — the  spring  evening  that, 
encouraged  by  God  knows  what  brave  illusion,  had  pene- 
trated even  these  desperate  fastnesses.  A  little  breeze  ac- 
companied it  and  the  dirty  pieces  of  paper  blew  to  and 
fro;, then  suddenly  a  shaft  of  light  quivered  upon  the  black- 
ness, quivered  and  spread  like  a  golden  fan,  then  flooded 
the  huge  cave  with  trembling  ripples  of  light.  There  was 
even,  I  dare  swear,  at  this  safe  distance,  a  smell  of  flowers 
in  the  air. 


14  THE  DAEK  FOEEST 

"It's  a  most  lovely  .  .  ."  Trenchard  said,  smiling  at  me, 
"spring  here  ...  I  find.  ..." 

I  was  compelled  by  some  unexpected  sense  of  fatherly 
duty  to  be  practical. 

"You've  got  your  things  ?"  I  said.  "You've  found  your 
seat?" 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  .  .  ."  he  stammered. 

"Where  are  they?"  I  asked  him. 

He  was  not  quite  sure  where  they  were.  He  stood,  wav- 
ing his  hands,  whilst  the  golden  sunlight  rippled  over  his 
face.    I  was  suddenly  irritated. 

"But  please,"  I  said,  "there  isn't  much  time.  Four  of 
us  men  have  a  compartment  together.  Just  show  me  where 
your  things  are  and  then  I'll  introduce  you."  He  seemed 
reluctant  to  move,  as  though  the  spot  that  he  had  chosen 
was  the  only  safe  one  in  the  whole  station;  but  I  forced 
him  forward,  found  his  bags,  had  them  placed  in  their 
carriage,  then  turned  to  introduce  him  to  his  companions. 

Anna  Mihailovna  had  said  to  me:  "This  detachment 
will  be  older  than  the  last.  Doctor  Nikitin — she'll  take  that 
other  doctor's  place,  the  one  who  had  typhus — and  Audrey 
Vassilievitch — ^you've  known  him  for  years.  He  talks  a 
great  deal  but  he's  sympathetic  and  such  a  good  business 
man.  He'll  be  useful.  Then  there's  an  Englishman;  I 
don't  know  much  about  him,  except  that  he's  been  working 
for  three  months  at  the  English  Hospital.  He's  not  a  cor- 
respondent, never  written  a  line  in  his  life.  I  only  saw 
him  for  a  moment,  but  he  seemed  sympathetic.  .  .  ." 

Anna  Mihailovna,  as  is  well  known  to  all  of  us,  finds 
every  one  sympathetic  simply  because  she  has  so  much  to 
do  and  so  many  people  to  see  that  she  has  no  time  to  go 
deeply  into  things.  If  you  have  no  time  for  judging  char- 
acter you  must  have  some  good  common  rule  to  go  by.     I 


SPKING  IN  THE  TRAIN"  15 

had  known  little  Andrey  Vassilievitch  for  some  years  and 
had  found  him  tiresome.  Finally,  I  did  not  care  about 
the  possibility  of  an  Englishman.  Perhaps  I  had  wished 
(through  pride)  to  remain  the  only  Englishman  in  our 
"Otriad."  I  had  made  friends  with  them  all,  I  was  at  home 
with  them.  Another  Englishman  might  transplant  me  in 
their  affections.  Russians  transfer,  with  the  greatest  ease, 
their  emotions  from  one  place  to  another;  or  he  might  be 
a  failure  and  so  damage  my  country's  reputation.  Some 
such  vain  and  stupid  prejudice  I  had.  I  know  that  I  looked 
upon  our  new  additions  with  disfavour. 

There,  at  any  rate,  Dr.  Nikitin  and  little  Andrey  Vas- 
silievitch were,  and  a  strange  contrast  they  made.  Nikitin's 
size  would  have  compelled  attention  anywhere,  even  in 
Russia,  which  is,  of  course,  a  country  of  big  men.  It  was 
not  only  that  he  was  tall  and  broad;  the  carriage  of  his 
head,  the  deep  blackness  of  his  beard,  his  eyebrows,  his  eyes, 
the  sure  independence  with  which  he  held  himself,  as  though 
he  were  indifferent  to  the  whole  world  (and  that  I  know 
that  he  was),  must  anywhere  have  made  him  remarked  and 
remembered.  He  looked  now  immensely  fine  in  his  uni- 
form, which  admirably  suited  him.  He  stood,  without  his 
greatcoat,  his  hand  on  his  sword,  his  eyes  half-closed  as 
though  he  were  almost  asleep,  and  a  faint  half-smile  on  his 
face  as  though  he  were  amused  at  his  thoughts.  I  remem- 
ber that  my  first  impression  of  him  was  that  he  was  so 
completely  beneath  the  domination  of  some  idea  or  remem- 
brance that,  at  that  moment,  no  human  being  could  touch 
him.  When  I  took  Trenchard  up  to  him  I  was  so  conscious 
of  his  remoteness  that  I  was  embarrassed  and  apologetic. 

And  if  I  was  aware  of  Nitikin's  remoteness  I  was  equally 
conscious  of  Andrey  Vassilievitch's  proximity.  He  was 
a  little  man  of  a  round  plump  figure;  he  wore  a  little  im- 


16  THE  DAKK  FOREST 

perial  and  sharp,  inquisitive  moustaches ;  his  hair  was  light 
brown  and  he  was  immensely  proud  of  it.  In  Petrograd 
he  was  always  very  smartly  dressed.  He  bought  his  clothes 
in  London  and  his  plump  hands  had  a  movement  familiar 
to  all  his  friends,  a  flicker  of  his  hands  to  his  coat,  his  waist- 
coat, his  trousers,  to  brush  oif  some  imaginary  speck  of  dust. 
It  was  obvious  now  that  he  had  given  very  much  thought 
to  his  uniform.  It  fitted  him  perfectly,  his  epaulettes  glit- 
tered, his  boots  shone,  his  sword  was  magnificent,  but  he 
looked,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts,  exactly  what  he  was,  a  rich 
successful  merchant ;  never  was  there  any  one  less  military. 
He  had  dressed  up,  one  might  suppose,  for  some  fancy-dress 
ball. 

I  could  see  at  once  that  he  was  ill  at  ease,  anxious  as  ever 
to  please  every  one,  to  like  every  one,  to  be  liked  in  return, 
but  unable,  because  of  some  thought  that  troubled  him,  to 
give  his  whole  attention  to  this  business  of  pleasing. 

He  greeted  me  with  a  warmth  that  was  really  genuine, 
although  he  bestowed  it  upon  his  merest  acquaintances. 
His  great  dream  in  life  was  a  universal  popularity — ^that 
every  one  should  love  him.  At  any  rate  at  that  time  I 
thought  that  to  be  his  dream — I  know  now  that  there  was 
something  else. 

"But  Ivan  Petrovitch!  .  .  .  This  is  delightful!  Here 
we  all  are!  What  pleasure!  Thank  God,  we're  all  here, 
no  delays,  nothing  unfortunate.  An  Englishman?  .  .  . 
Indeed,  I  am  very  glad!  Your  friend  speaks  Russian? 
Not  very  much,  but  enough?  .  .  .  You  know  Vladimir 
Stepanovitch  ?  Dr.  Nikitin  .  .  .  my  friend  Meester  Dur- 
ward.  Also  Meester?  ...  ah,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Tron- 
sart.  Two  Englishmen  in  our  Otriad  .  .  .  the  alliance, 
yes,  delightful!" 

Nikitin  slowly  opened  his  eyes,  shook  hands  with  me  and 


SPRING  IN"  THE  TEAIN  IT 

with  Trenchard,  said  that  he  was  glad  to  see  us  and  was 
silent  again.  Trenchard  stammered  and  blushed,  said  some- 
thing in  very  bad  Russian,  then  glanced  anxiously,  with 
an  eager  light  in  his  mild  blue  eyes,  in  the  direction  of  the 
excited  crowd  that  chattered  and  stirred  about  the  train. 
There  was  something,  in  that  look  of  his,  that  both  touched 
and  irritated  me.  "What  does  he  come  for?"  I  thought 
to  myself.  "With  his  bad  Russian  and  his  English  preju- 
dices. Of  course  he'll  be  lonely  and  then  he'll  be  in  every 
one's  way." 

I  could  remember,  readily  enough,  some  of  the  loneliness 
of  those  'first  months  of  my  own,  when  both  war  and  the 
Russians  had  differed  so  from  my  expectations.  This  fel- 
low looked  just  the  figure  for  high  romantic  pictures.  He 
had,  doubtless,  seen  Russia  in  the  colours  of  the  pleasant 
superficial  books  of  travel  that  have  of  late,  in  England, 
been  so  popular,  books  that  see  in  the  Russian  a  blessed 
aort  of  Idiot  unable  to  read  or  write  but  vitally  conscious 
of  God,  and  in  Russia  a  land  of  snow,  ikons,  mushrooms 
and  pilgrims.  Yes,  he  would  be  disappointed,  unhappy, 
and  tiresome.  Upon  myself  would  fall  the  chief  burden  of 
his  trouble — I  should  have  enough  upon  my  shoulders  with- 
out him. 

The  golden  fan  had  vanished  from  the  station  walls.  A 
dim  pale  glow,  with  sparkles  as  of  gold  dust  shining  here 
and  there  upon  that  grimy  world,  faltered  and  trembled  be- 
fore the  rattle  and  roar  that  threatened  it.  Nevertheless, 
Spring  was  with  us  at  our  departure.  As  the  bells  rang,  as 
the  ladies  of  our  Committee  screamed  and  laughed,  as  Anna 
Mihailovna  showered  directions  and  advice  upon  us,  as  we 
crowded  backwards  into  our  compartment  before  the  first 
jolt  of  the  departing  train.  Spring  was  with  us  .  .  .  but  of 
course  we  were  all  of  us  too  busy  to  be  aware  of  it. 


18  THE  DARK  FOREST 

iN'ikitin,  I  remember,  reduced  us  very  quickly,  for  all 
practical  purposes,  to  a  company  of  three.  He  lowered 
one  of  the  upper  beds,  climbed  into  it,  stretched  himself  out 
and  lay  in  silence  staring  at  the  carriage-roof.  His  body 
was  a  shadow  in  the  half-light,  touched  once  and  again  by 
the  gesture  of  the  swinging  lamp,  that  swept  him  out  of 
darkness  and  back  into  it  again.  The  remaining  three  of 
us  did  not  during  either  that  evening  or  the  next  day  make 
much  progress.  At  times  there  would  of  course  be  tea, 
and  then  the  two  Sisters  who  were  in  a  compartment  close  at 
hand  joined  us. 

Marie  Ivanovna,  Trenchard's  lady,  was  quieter  than  she 
had  been  before.  Her  face,  which  now  seemed  younger 
than  ever,  wore  a  look  of  important  seriousness  as  though 
she  were  conscious  of  the  indecency  of  her  earlier  excite- 
ment. She  spoke  very  little,  but  no  one  could  be  in  her 
presence  without  feeling  the  force  of  her  vitality  like  some 
hammer,  silent  but  of  immense  power,  beating  relentlessly 
upon  the  atmosphere.  Its  effect  was  the  stronger  in  that 
one  realised  how  utterly  at  present  she  was  unable  to  deal 
with  it.  Her  very  helplessness  was  half  of  her  power — ^half 
of  her  danger  too.  She  was  most  certainly  not  beautiful ; 
her  nose  was  too  short,  her  mouth  too  large,  her  forehead, 
from  which  her  black  hair  was  brushed  straight  back,  too 
high.  Her  complexion  was  pale  and  when  she  was  confused, 
excited,  or  pleased,  the  colour  came  into  her  face  in  a  faint 
flush  that  ebbed  and  flowed  but  never  reached  its  full  glow. 
Her  hands  were  thin  and  pale.  It  was  her  eyes  that  made 
her  so  young ;  they  were  so  large  and  round  and  credulous, 
scornful  sometimes  with  the  scorn  of  the  very  young  for  all 
the  things  in  the  world  that  they  have  not  experienced — 
but  young  especially  in  all  their  urgent  capacity  for  life, 
ill  their  confidence  of  carrying  through  all  the  demands  that 


SPEING  IN  THE  TRAIN  19 

the  High  Gods  might  make  upon  them.  I  knew  as  I  looked 
at  her  that  at  present  her  eagerness  for  experience  was 
stronger,  by  far,  than  her  eagerness  for  any  single  human 
being.  I  wondered  whether  Trenchard  knew  that.  He  was, 
beyond  discussion,  most  desperately  in  love;  the  love  of  a 
shy  man  who  has  for  so  many  years  wondered  and  dreamed 
and  finds,  when  the  reality  comes  to  him,  that  it  is  more, 
far  more,  than  he  had  expected.  When  she  came  in  to  us 
he  sat  very  quietly  by  her  side  and  talked,  if  he  talked  at 
all,  to  the  other  Sister,  a  stout  comfortable  woman  with  no 
illusions,  no  expectations,  immense  capacity  and  an  in- 
tensely serious  attitude  to  food  and  drink. 

Trenchard  let  his  eyes  rest  upon  his  lady's  face  when- 
ever she  was  unaware,  but  I  could  see  that  he  was  des- 
perately anxious  not  to  offend  her.  His  attitude  to  all 
women,  even  to  Anna  Petrovna,  the  motherly  Sister,  was 
that  of  a  man  who  has  always  blundered  in  their  company, 
who  has  been  mocked,  perhaps,  for  his  mistakes.  I  could 
see,  however,  that  his  pride  in  his  new  possession,  his  pride 
and  his  happiness,  carried  with  it  an  absolute  assurance  of 
his  security.  He  had  no  doubts  at  all.  He  seemed,  in  this, 
even  younger  than  she. 

Through  all  that  long  Spring  day  we  wandered  on — ^wan- 
dering it  seemed  as  the  train  picked  its  way  through  the 
fields  under  a  sky  of  blue  thin  and  fine  like  glass ;  through 
a  world  so  quiet  and  still  that  birds  and  children  sang  and 
called  as  though  to  reassure  themselves  that  they  were  not 
alona  Nothing  of  the  war  in  all  this.  At  the  stations  there 
were  officers  eating  "Ztchee"  soup  and  veal  and  drinking 
glasses  of  weak  tea,  there  were  endless  mountains  of  hot 
meat  piee;  the  ikons  in  the  restaurants  looked  down  with 
benignancy  and  indifference  upon  the  food  and  the  soldiers 
and  beyond  the  station  the  light  green  trees  blowing  in  the 


20  THE  DARK  FOREST 

little  wind;  the  choruses  of  the  soldiers  came  from  their 
trains  as  though  it  were  the  very  voice  of  Spring  itself.  It 
sounded  in  the  distance  like — 

Barinisha  Barinisha — Pop. 
Barinisha — Pop. 

80 — la,  la — la  .  .  . 
Bar  .  .  .  inisha  la. 

The  bell  rang,  officers  with  meat  pies  in  their  hands  came 
running  across  the  platform.  We  swung  on  again  through 
the  green  golden  day. 

Audrey  Vassilievitch  of  course  chattered  to  us  all.  It 
was  his  way,  and  after  a  very  brief  experience  of  it  one 
trained  oneself  to  regard  it  as  an  inevitable  background,  like 
the  jerking  and  smoke  of  the  train,  the  dust,  the  shrill  Rus- 
sian voices  in  the  next  compartment,  the  blowing  of  paper  to 
and  fro  in  the  corridor.  I  very  quickly  discovered  that  he 
was  intensely  conscious  of  Nikitin,  who  scarcely  throughout 
the  day  moved  from  his  upper  bunk.  Audrey  Vassilievitch 
handed  him  his  tea,  brought  his  meat  pies  and  sandwiches 
from  the  station,  and  offered  him  newspapers.  He  did  not, 
however,  speak  to  him  and  I  was  aware  that  throughout 
that  long  day  he  was  never  once  unconscious  of  him.  His 
chatter,  which  was  always  the  most  irrepressible  thing  in 
the  world,  had,  perhaps,  to-day  some  direction  behind  it. 
For  the  first  time  in  my  long  acquaintance  with  Audrey 
Vassilievitch  he  interested  me.  The  little  man  was  dis- 
tressed by  the  heat  and  dirt ;  his  fingers  were  always  flicker- 
ing about  his  clothes.  He  was  intensely  polite  to  every 
one,  especially  to  Trenchard,  paying  him  many  compliments 
about  England  and  the  English.  The  English  were  the  only 
"sportsmen"  in  the  world.  He  had  been  once  in  London 
for  a  week;  it  had  rained  very  much,  but  one  afternoon  it 


SPRING  IN  THE  TRAIN  21 

had  been  fine,  and  then  what  clothes  he  had  seen!  But 
the  City!  He  had  been  down  into  the  City  and  was  lost 
in  admiration;  he  had  also  been  lost  in  practical  earnest 
and  had  appealed  to  one  of  the  splendid  policemen  as  to  the 
way  to  Holbom  Viaduct,  a  name  that  he  was  quite  unable 
to  pronounce.  This  incident  he  told  us  several  times. 
Meanwhile  ...  he  hoped  he  might  ask  without  offence 
.  .  .  what  was  our  Navy  doing  ?  Why  weren't  our  subma- 
rines as  active  as  the  German  submarines  ?  And  in  France 
.  .  .  how  many  soldiers  had  we  now  ?  He  did  hope  that  he 
was  not  offending.  .  .  .  He  spoke  rapidly  and  indistinctly 
and  much  of  his  conversation  Trenchard  did  not  under- 
stand; he  made  some  rather  stupid  replies  and  Marie 
Ivanovna  laughed. 

She  spoke  English  very  well,  with  an  accent  that  was 
charming.  She  had  had,  she  said,  an  English  nurse,  and 
then  an  English  governess. 

Of  course  they  asked  me  many  questions  about  the  future. 
Would  we  be  close  to  the  Front?  How  many  versts? 
Would  there  be  plenty  of  work,  and  would  we  really  see 
things  ?  We  wanted  to  be  useful,  no  use  going  if  we  were 
not  to  be  useful.  How  many  Sisters  were  there  then  al- 
ready ?  Were  they  "sympathetic"  ?  Was  Molozov,  the 
head  of  the  Otriad,  an  agreeable  man?  Was  he  kind,  or 
would  he  be  angry  about  simply  nothing?  Who  would 
bandage  and  who  would  feed  the  villagers  and  who  would 
bathe  the  soldiers?  Were  the  officers  of  the  Ninth 
Army  pleasant  to  us  ?  Where  ?  Who  ?  When  ?  The  day 
slipped  away,  the  colours  were  drawn  from  the  sky,  the 
fields,  the  hills,  the  stars  came  out  in  their  myriads,  thickly 
clustered  in  ropes,  and  lakes  and  coils  of  light ;  the  air  was 
scented  with  flowers.    The  second  night  passed. 

The  greater  part  of  the  next  day  was  spent  in  H ,  a 


22  THE  dark:  FOREST 

snug  town  with  a  little  park  like  a  clean  handkerchief, 
streets  with  coloured  shops,  neat  and  fresh-painted  like  toys 
from  a  toy-shop,  little  blue  trains,  statues  of  bewigged  eight- 
eenth-century kings  and  dukes,  and  a  restaurant,  painted 
Watteau-fashion  with  bright  green  groves,  ladies  in  hoops 
and  powder,  and  long-legged  sheep.  Here  we  wandered, 
five  of  us.  Nikitin  told  us  that  he  would  meet  us  at  the 
station  that  evening.  He  had  his  own  business  in  the  place. 
The  little  town  was  delivered  over  to  the  Russian  army  but 
seemed  happy  enough  in  its  deliverance.  I  have  never  real- 
ised in  any  place  more  completely  the  spirit  of  bright  cheer- 
fulness, and  the  soldiers  who  thronged  the  little  streets  were 
as  far  from  alarm  and  thunder  as  the  painted  sheep  in  the 
restaurant.  Marie  Ivanovna  was  as  excited  as  though  she 
had  never  been  in  a  town  before.  She  bought  a  number  of 
things  in  the  little  expensive  shops — eau-de-Cologne,  sweets, 
an  electric  lamp,  a  wrist-watch,  and  some  preserved  fruit. 
Trenchard  made  her  presents ;  she  thanked  him  with  a  grati- 
tude that  made  him  so  happy  that  he  stumbled  over  his 
sword  more  than  ever,  blushing  and  pushing  his  cap  back 
from  his  head.  There  are  some  who  might  have  laughed 
at  him,  carrying  her  parcels,  his  face  flushed,  his  legs  knock- 
ing against  one  another,  but  it  was  here,  at  H ,  that,  for 

the  first  time,  I  positively  began  to  like  him.  By  the  eve- 
ning when  we  were  assembled  in  the  station  again  as  I 
looked  at  him  standing,  waiting  for  directions,  smiling,  hot, 
untidy  and  awkward,  I  knew  that  I  liked  him  very  much 
indeed.  .  .  . 

Our  new  train  overflowed :  with  the  greatest  difficulty  we 
secured  a  small  wooden  compartment  with  seats  sharp  and 
narrow  and  a  smell  of  cabbage,  bad  tobacco,  and  dirty 
clothes.  The  floor  was  littered  with  sunflower  seeds  and 
the  paper  wrappings  of  cheap  sweets.    The  air  came  in  hot 


SPEING  IN  THE  TEAIK  23 

stale  gusts  down  the  corridor,  met  the  yet  closer  air  of  our 
carriage,  battled  with  it  and  retired  defeated.  We  flung 
open  the  windows  and  a  cloud  of  dust  rose  gaily  to  meet 
us.  The  whole  of  the  Russian  army  seemed  to  be  surging 
upon  the  platform ;  orderlies  were  searching  for  their  mas- 
ters, officers  shouting  for  their  orderlies,  soldiers  staggering 
along  under  bundles  of  clothes  and  rugs  and  pillows ;  here 
a  group  standing  patiently,  each  man.  with  his  blue-painted 
kettle  and  on  his  face  that  expression  of  happy,  half- 
amused,  half -inquisitive,  wholly  amiable  tolerance  which  re- 
veals the  Russian  soldier's  favourite  attitude  to  the  world. 
Two  priests  with  wide  dirty  black  hats,  long  hair,  and  soiled 
grey  gowns  slowly  found  their  way  through  the  crowd.  A 
bunch  of  Austrian  prisoners  in  their  blue-grey  uniform 
made  a  strange  splash  of  colour  in  a  comer  of  the  platform, 
where,  very  contentedly,  they  were  drinking  their  tea ;  some 
one  in  the  invisible  distance  was  playing  the  balalaika  and 
every  now  and  then  some  church  bell  in  the  town  rang 
clearly  and  sharply  above  the  tumult.  The  thin  films  of 
dust,  yellow  in  the  evening  sun,  hovered  like  golden  smoke 
under  the  station  roof.  At  last  with  a  reluctant  jerk  and 
shiver  the  train  was  slowly  persuaded  to  totter  into  the  eve- 
ning air;  the  evening  scents  were  again  around  us,  the 
balalaika,  now  upon  the  train,  hummed  behind  us,  as  we 
pushed  out  upon  her  last  night's  journey. 

The  two  Sisters  had  the  seats  by  the  windows;  Nikitin 
curled  up  his  great  length  in  another  comer  and  Audrey 
Vassilievitch  settled  himself  with  much  grunting  and  many 
exclamations  beside  him.  I  and  Trenchard  sat  stiffly  on 
the  other  side. 

I  had,  long  ago,  accustomed  myself  to  sleep  in  any  posi- 
tion on  any  occasion,  however  sudden  it  might  be,  and  I 
fancied  that  I  should  now,  in  a  moment,  be  asleep,  although 


24  THE  DARK  FOREST 

I  had  never,  in  mj  long  travelling  experience,  known  greater 
discomfort.  I  looked  at  the  dim  lamp,  at  the  square  patch 
beyond  the  windows,  at  Nikitin's  long  body,  which  seemed 
nevertheless  so  perfectly  comfortable,  and  at  Andrey  Vas- 
silievitch's  short  fat  one,  which  was  so  obviously  miserably 
uncomfortable ;  I  smelt  the  cabbage,  the  dust,  the  sunflower 
seeds;  first  one  bone  then  another  ached,  in  the  centre  of 
my  back  there  was  an  intolerable  irritation ;  above  all,  there 
was  in  my  brain  some  strange  insistent  compulsion,  as 
though  some  one  were  forcing  me  to  remember  something 
that  I  had  forgotten,  or  as  though  again  some  one  were  fore- 
warning me  of  some  peril  or  complication.  I  had,  very 
distinctly,  that  impression,  so  familiar  to  all  of  us,  of  pass- 
ing through  some  experience  already  known:  I  had  seen 
already  the  dim  lamp,  the  square  patch  of  evening  sky, 
Nikitin,  Andrey  Vassilievitch.  ...  I  knew  that  in  a  mo- 
ment Trenchard  .  .  .  He  did.  .  .  .  He  touched  my  arm. 

"Can  you  sleep  ?"  he  whispered. 

"No,"  I  answered. 

"It's  terribly  hot,  close — smell.  .  .  .  Are  you  going  to 
sleep?" 

"No,"  I  whispered  back  again. 

"Let  us  move  into  the  corridor.    It  will  be  cooler  there." 

There  seemed  to  me  quite  a  new  sound  of  determination 
and  resolve  in  his  voice.  His  nervousness  had  left  him  with 
the  daylight.  He  led  the  way  out  of  the  carriage,  turned 
down  the  little  seats  in  the  corridor,  provided  cigarettes. 

"It  isn't  much  better  here,  but  we'll  have  the  window 
open.  It'll  get  better.  This  is  really  war,  isn't  it,  being  so 
uncomfortable  as  this  ?  I  feel  as  though  things  were  really 
beginning." 

"Well,  we  shall  be  there  to-morrow  night,"  I  answered 
him.    "I  hope  you're  not  going  to  be  disappointed." 


SPRIITG  IK  THE  TEAIIT  25 

'^Disappointed  in  what  ?"  His  voice  was  quite  sharp  as 
he  spoke  to  me.     "You  don't  know  what  I  want." 

"I  suppose  you're  like  the  rest  of  us.  You  want  to  see 
what  war  really  is.  You  want  to  do  some  good  if  you  can. 
You  want  to  be  seriously  occupied  in  it  to  prevent  your 
thinking  too  much  about  it.  Then,  because  you're  English, 
you  want  to  see  what  the  Russians  are  really  like.  You're 
curious  and  sympathetic,  inquisitive  and,  perhaps,  a  little 
sentimental  about  it.  .  .  .  Am  I  right  ?" 

"!N^o,  not  quite — ^there  are  other  things.  I'd  like  to  tell 
you.  Do  you  mind,"  he  said  suddenly  looking  up  straight 
into  my  face  with  a  confiding  smile  that  was  especially  his 
own,  "if  I  talk,  if  I  tell  you  why  I've  come  ?  I've  no  right, 
I  don't  know  you — ^but  I'm  so  happy  to-night  that  I  must 
talk — I'm  so  happy  that  I  feel  as  though  I  shall  never  get 
through  the  night  alive." 

Of  our  conversation  after  this,  or  rather  of  his  talk, 
excited,  eager,  intimate  and  shy,  old  and  wise  and  very, 
very  young,  I  remember  now,  I  think,  every  word  with 
especial  vividness.  After  events  were  to  fix  it  all  in  my 
brain  with  peculiar  accuracy,  but  his  narration  had  that 
night  of  itself  its  own  individual  quality.  His  was  no 
ordinary  personality,  or,  at  any  rate,  the  especial  circum- 
stances of  the  time  drove  it  into  no  ordinary  shape,  and  I 
believe  that  never  before  in  all  his  days  had  he  spoken 
freely  and  eagerly  to  any  one.  It  was  simply  to-night  his 
exultation  and  happiness  that  impelled  him,  perhaps  also 
some  sense  of  high  adventure  that  his  romantic  character 
would,  most  inevitably,  extract  from  our  expedition  and  its 
purposes. 

At  any  rate,  I  listened,  saying  a  word  now  and  then, 
whilst  the  hour  grew  dark,  lit  only  by  the  stars,  then  trem- 
bled into  a  pale  dawn  overladen  with  grey  dense  clouds, 


26  THE  DARK  FOREST 

which  again  broke,  rolled  away,  before  another  shining, 
glittering  morning.  I  remember  that  it  was  broad  daylight 
when  we,  at  last,  left  the  corridor. 

"I'm  thirty-three,"  he  said.  "I  don't  feel  it,  of  course; 
I  seem  to  be  now  only  just  beginning  life.  I'm  a  very 
unpractical  person  and  in  that  way,  perhaps,  I'm  younger 
than  my  age." 

I  remember  that  I  said  something  to  him  about  his,  most 
certainly,   appearing  younger. 

"Most  certainly  I  do.  I'm  just  the  same  as  when  I  went 
up  to  Cambridge  and  I  was  then  as  when  I  first  went  to 
Rugby.  E^othing  seems  to  have  had  any  effect  upon  me — 
except,  perhaps,  these  last  two  days.  Do  you  know  Glebe- 
shire?"  he  asked  me  abruptly. 

I  said  that  I  had  spent  one  summer  there  with  a  reading 
party. 

"Ah,"  he  answered,  smiling,  "I  can  teU,  by  the  way  you 
say  that,  that  you  don't  really  know  it  at  all.  To  us  Glebe- 
shire  people  it's  impossible  to  speak  of  it  so  easily.  There 
are  Trenchards  all  over  Glebeshire,  you  know,  lots  of  them. 
In  Polchester,  our  cathedral  town,  where  I  was  bom,  there 
are  at  least  four  Trenchard  families.  Then  in  Truxe,  at 
Garth,  at  Rasselas,  at  Clinton — but  why  should  I  bother 
you  with  all  this  ?  It's  only  to  tell  you  that  the  Trenchards 
are  simply  Glebeshire  for  ever  and  ever.  To  a  Trenchard, 
anywhere  in  the  world,  Glebeshire  is  hearth  and  home." 

"I  believe  I've  met,"  I  said,  "your  Trenchards  of  Garth. 
George  Trenchard.  .  .  .  She  was  a  Faunder.  They  have 
a  house  in  Westminster.  There's  a  charming  Miss  Trench- 
ard with  whom  I  danced." 

"Yes,  those  are  the  George  Trenchards,"  he  answered 
with  eagerness  and  delight,  as  though  I  had  formed  a  new 
link  with  him.     "Fancy  your  knowing  them!     How  small 


SPRING  IN  THE  TRAIN  27 

tlie  world  is!  My  father  was  a  cousin,  a  first  cousin,  of 
George  Trenchard's.  The  girl — ^you  must  mean  Millie — is 
delightful.  Katherine,  the  elder  sister,  is  married  now. 
She  too  is  charming,  but  in  a  different,  graver  way." 

He  spoke  of  them  all  with  a  serious  lingering  pleasure,  as 
though  he  were  summoning  them  all  into  the  dusty,  stuffy 
corridor,  carrying  them  with  him  into  these  strange  coun- 
tries and  perilous  adventures. 

"They  always  laughed  at  me — ^Millie  especially;  I've 
stayed  sometimes  with  them  at  Garth.  But  I  didn't  mean 
really  to  talk  about  them — I  only  wanted  to  show  you  how 
deeply  Glebeshire  matters  to  the  Trenchards,  and  whatever 
happens,  wherever  a  Trenchard  goes,  he  always  really  takes 
Glebeshire  with  him.  I  was  bom  in  Polchester,  as  I  said. 
My  father  had  a  little  property  there,  but  we  always  lived 
in  a  little  round  bow-windowed  house  in  the  Cathedral 
Close.  I  was  simply  brought  up  on  the  Cathedral.  From 
my  bedroom  windows  I  looked  on  the  whole  of  it.  In  our 
drawing-room  you  could  hear  the  booming  of  the  organ. 
I  was  always  watching  the  canons  crossing  the  cathedral 
green,  counting  the  strokes  of  the  cathedral  bell,  listening 
to  the  cawing  of  the  cathedral  rooks,  smelling  the  cathedral 
smell  of  cold  stone,  wet  umbrellas  and  dusty  hassocks,  look- 
ing up  at  the  high  tower  and  wondering  whether  anywhere 
in  the  world  there  was  anything  so  grand  and  fine.  My 
moral  world,  too,  was  built  on  the  cathedral — on  the  cathe- 
dral 'don'ts'  and  'musts,'  on  the  cathedral  hours  and  the 
cathedral  prayers,  and  the  cathedral  ambitions  and  disap- 
pointments. My  father's  great  passion  was  golf.  He  was 
not  a  religious  man.  But  my  mother  believed  in  the 
cathedral  with  a  passion  that  was  almost  a  disease.  She 
died  looking  at  it.  Her  spirit  is  somewhere  round  it  now, 
I  do  believe." 


28  THE  DARK  FOREST 

He  paused,  then  went  on : 

"It  was  the  cathedral  that  made  me  so  unpractical,  I 
suppose.  I  who  am  an  only  child — I  believed  implicitly 
in  what  I  was  told  and  it  always  was  my  mother  who  told 
me  everything." 

He  was,  I  thought,  the  very  simplest  person  to  whom 
I  had  ever  listened.  The  irritation  that  I  had  already  felt 
on  several  occasions  in  his  company  again  returned.  "My 
father's  great  passion  was  golf"  would  surely  in  the  mouth 
of  another  have  had  some  tinge  of  irony. 

In  Trenchard's  mild  blue  eyes  irony  was  an  incredible 
element.  I  could  fancy  what  he  would  have  to  say  to  the 
very  gentlest  of  cynics ;  some  of  the  sympathy  I  had  felt  for 
him  during  the  afternoon  had  left  me. 

"He's  very  little  short  of  an  idiot,"  I  thought.  "He's 
going  to  be  dreadfully  in  the  way." 

"I  was  the  only  child,  you  see,"  he  continued.  "Of 
course  I  was  a  great  deal  to  my  mother  and  she  to  me.  We 
were  always  together.  I  don't  think  that  even  when  I  was 
very  young  I  believed  all  that  she  told  me.  She  seemed  to 
me  always  to  take  everything  for  granted.  Heaven  to  me 
was  so  mysterious  and  she  had  such  definite  knowledge.  I 
always  liked  things  to  be  indefinite  ...  I  do  stilL"  He 
laughed,  paused  for  a  moment,  but  was  plainly  now  off  on 
his  fine  white  horse,  charging  the  air,  to  be  stopped  by  no 
mortal  challenge.  I  had  for  a  moment  the  thought  that  I 
would  slip  from  my  seat  and  leave  him ;  I  didn't  believe  that 
he  would  have  noticed  my  absence ;  but  the  thought  of  that 
small  stuffy  carriage  held  me. 

But  he  was  conscious  of  me ;  like  the  Ancient  Mariner  he 
fixed  upon  my  arm  his  hand  and  stared  into  my  eyes: 

"There  were  other  things  that  puzzled  me.  There  was, 
for  instance,  the  chief  doctor  in  our  town-    He  was  a  largq. 


SPKING  IN  THE  TKAIN  29 

fat,  jolly  red-faced  man,  clean-shaven,  with  white  hair. 
He  was  considered  the  best  doctor  in  the  place — all  the  old 
maids  went  to  him.  He  was  immensely  jolly,  you  could 
hear  his  laugh  from  one  end  of  the  street  to  the  other.  He 
was  married,  had  a  delightful  little  house,  where  his  wife 
gave  charming  dinners.  He  was  stupid  and  self-satisfied. 
Even  at  his  own  work  he  was  stupid,  reading  nothing,  care- 
less and  forgetful,  thinking  about  golf  and  food  only  all  his 
days.  He  was  a  snob  too  and  would  give  up  any  one  for 
the  people  at  the  Castle.  Even  when  I  was  a  small  boy  I 
somehow  knew  all  this  about  him.  My  father  thought  the 
world  of  him  and  loved  to  play  golf  with  him.  .  .  .  He  was 
completely  happy  and  successful  and  popular.  Then  there 
was  another  man,  an  old  canon  who  taught  me  Latin  before 
I  went  to  Eugby,  an  old,  untidy,  dirty  man,  whose  sermons 
were  dull  and  his  manners  bad.  He  was  a  failure  in  life — 
and  he  was  a  failure  to  himself;  dissatisfied  with  what  he 
used  to  call  his  'bundle  of  rotten  twigs,'  his  life  and  habits 
and  thoughts.  But  he  thought  that  somewhere  there  was 
something  he  would  find  that  would  save  him — somewhere, 
sometime  .  .  .  not  God  merely — 'like  a  key  that  will  open 
all  the  doors  in  the  house.'  To  me  he  was  fascinating.  He 
knew  so  much,  he  was  so  humble,  so  kind,  so  amusing. 
Nobody  liked  him,  of  course.  They  tried  to  turn  him  out 
of  the  place,  gave  him  a  little  living  at  last,  and  he  married 
his  cook.  Was  she  his  key?  She  may  have  been  ...  I 
never  saw  him  again.  But  I  used  to  wonder.  Why  was  the 
doctor  so  happy  and  the  little  canon  so  unhappy,  the  doctor 
so  successful,  the  canon  so  unsuccessful  ?  I  decided  that 
the  great  thing  was  to  be  satisfied  with  oneself.  I  de- 
termined that  I  would  be  satisfied  with  myself.  Well,  of 
course  I  never  was — never  have  been.  Something  wouldn't 
let  me  alone.    The  key  to  the  door,  perhaps  .  .  .  everything 


30  THE  DARK  FOREST 

was  shut  Tip  inside  me,  and  at  last  I  began  to  wonder 
whether  there  was  anything  there  at  all.  When  at  nineteen 
I  went  to  Cambridge  I  was  very  unhappy.  Whilst  I  was 
there  my  mother  died.  I  came  back  to  the  little  bow- 
windowed  house  and  lived  with  my  father.  I  was  quite 
alone  in  the  world." 

In  spite  of  myself  I  had  a  little  movement  of  impatience. 

"How  self-centred  the  man  is !  As  though  his  case  were 
at  all  peculiar!     Wants  shaking  up  and  knocking  about." 

He  seemed  to  know  my  thought. 

"You  must  think  me  self-centred !  I  was.  Eor  thirteen 
whole  years  I  thought  of  nothing  but  myself,  my  miserable 
self,  all  shut  up  in  that  little  town.  I  talked  to  no  one.  I 
did  not  even  read — I  used  to  sit  in  the  dark  of  the  cathedral 
nave  and  listen  to  the  organ.  I'd  walk  in  the  orchards  and 
the  woods.  I  would  wonder,  wonder,  wonder  about  people 
and  I  grew  more  and  more  frightened  of  talking,  of  meet- 
ing people,  of  little  local  dinner-parties.  It  was  as  though 
I  were  on  one  side  of  the  river  and  they  were  all  on  the 
other.  I  would  think  sometimes  how  splendid  it  would  be 
if  I  could  cross — ^but  I  couldn't  cross.  Every  year  it  became 
more  impossible!" 

"You  wanted  some  one  to  take  you  out  of  yourself,"  I 
said,  and  then  shuddered  at  my  own  banality.  But  he  took 
me  very  seriously. 

"I  did.  Of  course,"  he  answered.  "But  who  would 
bother?  They  all  thought  me  impossible.  The  girls  all 
laughed  at  me — ^my  own  cousins.  Sometimes  people  tried 
to  help  me.  They  never  went  far  enough.  They  gave  me 
up  too  soon." 

"He  evidently  thinks  he  was  worth  a  lot  of  trouble," 
I  thought  irritably.    But  suddenly  he  laughed. 

"That  same  doctor  one  day  spoke  of  me,  not  knowing 


SPEING  m  THE  TRAIN  31 

that  I  was  near  him;  or  perhaps  he  knew  and  thought  it 
would  be  good  for  me.  'Oh,  Trenchard/  he  said.  'He  ought 
to  be  in  a  nunnery  .  .  .  and  he'd  be  quite  safe,  too.  Hed 
never  cause  a  scandal !'  They  thought  of  me  as  something 
not  quite  human.  My  father  was  very  old  now.  Just  before 
he  died,  he  said :  'I'd  like  to  have  had  a  son !'  He  never 
noticed  me  at  his  bedside  when  he  died.  I  was  a  great 
disappointment  to  him." 

"Well,"  I  said  at  last  to  break  a  long  pause  that  followed 
his  last  words,  "what  did  you  think  about  all  that  time 
you  were  alone?" 

"I  used  to  think  always  about  two  things,"  he  said  very 
solemnly.  "One  was  love.  I  used  to  think  how  splendid 
it  would  be  if  only  there  would  be  some  one  to  whom  I  could 
dedicate  my  devotion.  I  didn't  care  if  I  got  much  in  return 
or  no,  but  they  must  be  willing  to  have  it  ready  for  me  to 
devote  myself  altogether.  I  used  to  watch  .the  ladies  in  our 
town  and  select  them,  one  after  another.  Of  course  they 
never  knew  and  they  would  only  have  laughed  had  they 
known.  But  I  felt  quite  desperate  sometimes.  I  had  so 
much  in  me  to  give  to  some  one  and  the  years  were  all 
slipping  by  and  it  became,  every  day,  more  difficult.  There 
was  a  girl  .  .  .  something  seemed  to  begin  between  us. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  canons,  dark-haired,  and 
she  used  to  wear  a  lilac-coloured  dress.  She  was  very  kind ; 
once  when  we  were  walking  through  the  town  I  began  to 
talk  to  her.  I  believe  she  understood,  because  she  was  very, 
very  young — only  about  eighteen — and  hadn't  begun  to 
laugh  at  me  yet.  She  had  a  dimple  in  one  cheek,  very 
charming — but  some  man  from  London  came  to  stay  at  the 
Castle  and  she  was  engaged  to  him.  Then  there  were 
Katherine  and  Millie  Trenchard,  of  whom  we  were  talking. 
Katherine  never  laughed  at  me ;  she  was  serious  and  helped 


32  THE  DARK  FOREST 

her  mother  about  all  the  household  things  and  the  village 
where  they  lived.  Afterwards  she  ran  away  with  a  young 
man  and  was  married  in  London — very  strange  because  she 
was  so  serious.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  it  at 
the  time.  Millie  too  was  charming.  She  laughed  at  me, 
of  course,  but  she  laughed  at  every  one.  At  any  rate  she 
was  only  cousinly  to  me ;  she  would  not  have  eared  for  my 
devotion." 

As  he  spoke  I  had  a  picture  in  my  mind  of  poor  Trench- 
ard  searching  the  countryside  for  some  one  to  whom  he 
might  be  devoted,  tongue-tied,  clumsy,  stumbling  and  stut- 
tering, a  village  Don  Quixote  with  a  stammer  and  without 
a  Dulcinea. 

"They  must  have  been  difficult  years,"  I  said,  and  again 
cursed  myseK  for  my  banality. 

"They  were,"  he  answered  very  gravely.  "Very  diffi- 
cult." 

"And  your  other  thoughts  ?"  I  asked  him. 

"They  were  about  death,"  he  replied.  "I  had,  from  my 
very  earliest  years,  a  great  terror  of  death.  You  might 
think  that  my  life  was  not  so  pleasant  that  I  should  mind, 
very  greatly,  leaving  it.  But  I  was  always  thinking — 
hoping  that  I  should  live  to  be  very  old,  even  though  I  lost 
all  my  limbs  and  faculties.  I  believed  that  there  was  life  of 
some  sort  after  death,  but  just  as  I  would  hesitate  outside 
a  house  a  quarter  of  an  hour  from  terror  of  meeting  new 
faces  so  I  felt  about  another  life — I  couldn't  bear  all  the 
introductions  and  the  clumsy  mistakes  that  I  should  be  sure 
to  make.  But  it  was  more  personal  than  that.  I  had  a 
horrible  old  uncle  who  died  when  I  was  a  boy.  He  was 
a  very  ugly  old  man,  bent  and  whitened  and  gnarled,  a 
face  and  hands  twisted  with  rheumatism.  I  used  to  call 
him  Quilp  to  myself.     He  always  wore,  I  remember,  an 


SPEING  IN  THE  TEAIN  33 

old-fashioned  dress.  Velvet  knee-breeches,  a  white  stock, 
black  shoes  with  buckles.  I  remember  that  his  hands  were 
damp  and  hair  grew  in  bushes  out  of  his  ears.  Well,  I 
saw  him  once  or  twice  and  he  filled  me  with  terror  like  a 
figure  out  of  the  tapestry  up  at  the  Castle.  Then  he  died. 
"Our  house  was  small  and  badly  shaped,  full  of  dark 
comers,  and  after  his  death  he  seemed  to  me  to  haunt  the 
place.  He  figured  Death  to  me  and  until  I  was  quite  old, 
until  I  went  to  Eugby,  I  fancied  that  he  was  sitting  in  a 
dark  comer,  on  a  chair,  waiting,  with  his  hands  on  his  lap, 
until  the  time  came  for  him  to  take  me.  Sometimes  I 
would  fancy  that  I  heard  him  moving  from  one  room  to 
another,  bringing  his  chair  with  him.  Then  I  began  to 
have  a  dream,  a  dream  that  frequently  recurred  all  the  time 
that  I  was  growing  up.  It  was  a  dream  about  a  huge  dark 
house  in  a  huge  dark  forest.  It  was  early  morning,  the 
light  just  glimmering  between  the  thick  damp  trees.  A 
large  party  of  people  gathered  together  in  a  high  empty 
room  prepared  for  an  expedition.  I  was  one  of  them  and 
I  was  filled  with  sharp  agonising  terror.  Sometimes  in 
my  dream  I  drank  to  give  myself  courage  and  the  glass 
clattered  against  my  lips.  Sometimes  I  talked  with 
one  of  the  company;  the  room  was  very  dark  and  I  could 
see  no  faces.  Then  we  would  start  trooping  out  into 
the  bitterly  cold  morning  air.  There  would  be  many 
horses  and  dogs.  We  would  lead  off  into  the  forest  and 
soon  (it  always  happened)  I  would  find  myself  alone — alone 
with  the  dripping  trees  high  around  me  and  the  light  that 
seemed  to  grow  no  lighter  and  the  intense  cold.  Then 
suddenly  it  would  be  that  I  was  the  hunted,  not  the  hunter. 
It  was  Death  whom  we  were  hunting — Death,  for  me  my 
uncle — and  I  would  fancy  him  waiting  in  the  darkness, 
watching  me,  smiling,  hearing  his  hunters  draw  off  the 


84      •  THE  DARK  FOREST 

scent,  knowing  that  they  would  not  find  him,  but  that  he 
had  found  me.  Then  my  knees  would  fail  me,  I  would  sink 
down  in  a  sweat  of  terror,  and — ^wake !  .  .  .  Brrr !  .  .  .  I 
can  see  it  now!" 

He  shook  himself,  turning  round  to  me  as  though  he  were 
suddenly  ashamed  of  himself,  with  a  laugh  half -shy,  half- 
retrospective. 

"We  all  have  our  dreams,"  he  continued.  "But  this 
came  too  often — again  and  again.  The  question  of  death 
became  my  constant  preoccupation  as  I  grew  to  think  I 
would  never  see  it,  nor  hear  men  speak  of  it,  nor " 

"And  you  have  come,"  I  could  not  but  interrupt  him, 
"here,  to  the  very  fortress — Why,  man ! " 

"I  know,"  he  answered,  smiling  at  me.  "It  must  seem 
to  yoi|.  ridiculous.  But  I  am  a  different  person  now — ^very 
different.  Now  I  am  ready,  eager  for  anything.  Death  can 
be  nothing  to  me  now,  or  if  that  is  too  bold,  at  least  I  may 
say  that  I  am  prepared  to  meet  him — anywhere — at  any 
time.     I  want  to  meet  him — ^I  want  to  show " 

"We  have  all,"  I  said,  "in  our  hearts,  perhaps,  come  like 
that — come  to  prove  that  our  secret  picture  of  ourselves, 
that  picture  so  different  from  our  friends'  opinion  of  us,  is 
really  the  true  one.  We  can  fancy  them  saying  afterwards : 
'Well,  I  never  knew  that  so-and-so  had  so  much  in  him!' 
We  always  knew." 

"No,  you  see,"  Trenchard  said  eagerly,  "there  can  be  only 
one  person  now  about  whose  opinion  I  care.  If  she  thinks 
well  of  me " 

"You  are  very  much  in  love,"  I  said,  and  loosed,  as  I  had 
expected,  the  torrents  of  his  happiness  upon  me. 

"I  was  in  Polchester  when  the  war  broke  out.  The  town 
received  it  rather  as  though  a  first-class  company  had  come 
from  London  to  act  in  the  Assembly  Rooms  for  a  fortnight. 


SPEING  IN  THE  T.B.A1N  35 

It  was  dramatic  and  picturesque  and  pleasantly  patriotic. 
They  see  it  otherwise  now,  I  fancy.  I  seemed  at  once  to 
think  of  Russia.  For  one  thing  I  wanted  desperately  to 
help,  and  I  thought  that  in  England  they  would  only 
laugh  at  me  as  they  had  always  done.  I  am  short-sighted. 
I  knew  that  I  should  never  be  a  soldier.  I  fancied  that  in 
Russia  they  would  not  say:  'Oh,  John  Trenchard  of  Pol- 
chester.  .  .  .  Hes  no  good!'  before  they'd  seen  whether  I 
could  do  anything.  Then  of  course  I  had  read  about  the 
country — Tolstoi  and  Turgeniev,  and  a  little  Dostoevsky 
and  even  Gorki  and  Tchekov.  I  went  quite  suddenly, 
making  up  my  mind  one  evening.  I  seemed  to  begin  to  be 
a  new  man  out  of  England.  The  journey  delighted  me  .  .  . 
I  was  in  Moscow  before  I  knew.  I  was  there  three  months 
trying  to  learn  Russian.  Then  I  came  to  Petrograd  and 
through  the  English  Embassy  found  a  place  in  one  of  the 
hospitals,  where  I  worked  as  a  sanitar  for  three  months. 
I  did  not  leave  England  until  November,  so  that  I  have  been 
in  Russia  now  just  six  months.  It  was  in  this  hospital  that 
I  met  Miss  Krassovsky — Marie  Ivanovna,  From  the  first 
moment  I  loved  her,  of  course.  And  she  liked  me.  She  was 
the  first  woman,  since  my  mother,  who  had  really  liked  me. 
She  quickly  saw  my  devotion  and  she  laughed  a  little,  but 
she  was  always  kind.  I  could  talk  to  her  and  she  liked  to 
listen.  She  had — she  has,  great  ideals,  great  hopes  and 
ambitions.  We  worked  together  there  and  then,  afterwards, 
in  those  beautiful  spring  evenings  in  Petrograd  when  the 
canals  shone  all  night  and  the  houses  were  purple,  we 
walked.  .  .  .  The  night  before  last  night  I  begged  her  to 
marry  me  .  .  .  and  she  accepted.  She  said  that  we  would 
go  together  to  the  war,  that  I  should  be  her  knight  and  she 
my  lady  and  that  we  would  care  for  the  wounds  of  the  whole 
world.    Ah !  what  a  night  that  was — shall  I  ever  forget  it  ? 


36  THE  DAKK  FOKEST 

After  she  had  left  me,  I  walked  all  night  and  sang  ...  I 
was  mad  ...  I  am  mad  now.  That  she  should  love  me! 
She,  so  beautiful,  so  pure,  so  wonderful.  I  at  whom  women 
have  always  laughed.  Ah !  God  forgive  me,  my  heart  will 
break " 

As  he  spoke  the  heavy  grey  clouds  of  the  first  dawn  were 
parting  and  a  faint  very  liquid  blue,  almost  white  and  very 
cold,  hovered  above  dim  shapeless  trees  and  fields.  I  flung 
open  the  corridor  window  and  a  sound  of  running  water  and 
the  first  notes  of  some  sleepy  bird  met  me. 

"And  her  family?"  I  said.  "Who  are  they,  and  will 
they  not  mind  her  marrying  an  Englishman  ?" 

"She  has  only  a  mother,"  he  answered.  "I  fancy  that 
Marie  has  always  had  her  own  way." 

"Yes,"  I  thought  to  myself.  "I  also  fancy  that  that  is 
so."  A  sense  of  almost  fatherly  protection  had  developed 
in  myself  towards  him.  How  could  he,  who  knew  nothing 
at  all  of  women,  hope  to  manage  that  self-willed,  eager, 
independent  girl  ?  Why,  why,  why  had  she  engaged  herself 
to  him  ?  I  fancied  that  very  possibly  there  were  qualities 
in  him — his  very  childishness  and  helplessness — which,  if 
they  only  irritated  an  Englishman,  would  attract  a  Russian. 
Lame  dogs  find  a  warm  home  in  Russia.  But  did  she  know 
anything  about  him  ?  Would  she  not,  in  a  week,  be  irritated 
by  his  incapacity  ?  And  he — ^he — bless  his  innocence ! — was 
so  confident  as  though  he  had  been  married  to  her  for  years ! 

"Look  here !"  I  said,  moved  by  a  sudden  impulse.  "Will 
you  mind  if,  sometimes,  I  tell  you  things  ?  I've  been  to  the 
war  before.  It's  a  strange  life,  unlike  anything  you've  ever 
known — and  Russians  too  are  strange — especially  at  first. 
You  won't  take  it  badly,  if " 

He  touched  my  arm  with  his  hand  while  his  whole  face 
was  lighted  with  his  smile.    "Why,  my  dear  fellow,  I  shall 


SPKING  m  THE  TRAIN  37 

be  proud.    No  one  has  ever  thought  me  worth  the  bother. 
I  want  to  be — ^to  be — at  my  best  here.    Practical,  you  know 

— like  others.    I  don't  want  her  to  think  me " 

"No,  exactly,"  I  said  hurriedly,  "I  understand."  Gold 
was  creeping  into  the  sky.  A  lark  rose,  triumphant.  A 
pool  amongst  the  reeds  blazed  like  a  brazen  shield.  The 
Spring  day  had  flung  back  her  doors.  I  saw  that  suddenly 
fatigue  had  leapt  upon  my  friend.  He  tottered  on  his  little 
seat,  then  his  face,  grey  in  the  light,  fell  forward.  I  caught 
him  in  my  arms,  half  carried,  half  led  him  into  our  little 
carriage,  arranged  him  in  the  empty  comer,  and  left  him, 
fast,  utterly  fast,  asleep. 


CHAPTER  II 


THE    SCHOOL-HOUSE 


THE  greater  part  of  the  next  day  was  spent  by  us  in  the 
little  town  of  S ,  a  comfortable  place  very  slightly 

disturbed  by  the  fact  that  it  had  been  already  the  scene  of 
four  battles ;  there  was  just  this  effect,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
that  the  affairs  of  the  day  were  carried  on  with  a  kind  of 
somnolent  indifference.  .  .  .  "You  may  order  your  veal," 
the  waiter  seemed  to  say,  "but  whether  you  will  get  it  or 
no  is  entirely  in  the  hands  of  God.  It  is,  therefore,  of  no 
avail  that  I  should  hurry  or  that  you  should  show  temper 
should  the  veal  not  appear.  At  any  moment  your  desire 
for  veal  and  my  ability  to  bring  it  you  may  have  ceased  for 
ever." 

For  the  rest  the  town  billowed  with  trees  of  the  youngest 
green;  also  birds  of  the  tenderest  age,  if  one  may  judge 
by  their  happiness  at  the  spring  weather.  There  were  many 
old  men  in  white  smocks  and  white  trousers  and  women  in 
brightly-coloured  kerchiefs.  But,  except  for  the  young 
birds,  it  was  a  silent  place. 

I  had  much  business  to  carry  through  and  saw  the  rest 
of  our  company  only  at  luncheon  time ;  it  was  after  luncheon 
that  I  had  a  little  conversation  with  Marie  Ivanovna.  She 
chose  me  quite  deliberately  from  the  others,  moved  our 
chairs  to  the  quieter  end  of  the  little  balcony  where  we  were, 
planted  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  stared  into  my  face 
with  her  large  round  credulous  eyes.     (I  find  on  looking 

88 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  39 

back,  that  I  have  already  used  exactly  those  adjectives. 
That  may  stand:  I  mean  that,  emphatically,  and  beyond 
every  other  impression  she  made,  her  gaze  declared  that 
she  was  ready  to  believe  anything  that  she  were  told,  and 
the  more  in  the  telling  the  better.) 

She  spoke,  as  always,  with  that  sense  of  restrained, 
sharply  disciplined  excitement,  as  though  her  eager  vitality 
were  some  splendid  if  ferocious  animal  struggling  at  its 
chain. 

"You  talked  to  John — Mr.  Trenchard — last  night,"  she 
said. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  smiling  into  her  eyes. 

"I  know — all  night — ^he  told  me.  He's  splendid,  isn't  he  ? 
Splendid!" 

"I  like  him  very  much,"  I  answered. 

"Ah!  you  must!  you  must!  You  must  all  like  him! 
You  don't  know — his  thoughts,  his  ideals — they  are  wonder- 
ful. He's  like  some  knight  of  the  Middle  Ages.  .  .  .  Ah, 
but  you'll  think  that  silly,  Mr.  Durward.  You're  a  prac- 
tical Englishman.    I  hate  practical  Englishmen.'* 

"Thank  you,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"No,  but  I  do.  You  sneer  at  everything  beautiful.  Here 
in  Russia  we're  more  simple.  And  John's  very  like  a  Rus- 
sian in  many  ways.    Don't  you  think  he  is  ?" 

"I  haven't  known  him  long  enough "  I  began. 

"Ah,  you  don't  like  him !  I  see  you  don't.  .  .  .  No,  it's 
no  use  your  saying  anything.  He  isn't  English  enough  for 
you,  that's  what  it  is.  You  think  him  unpractical,  un- 
worldly. Well,  so  he  is.  Do  you  think  I'd  ever  be  engaged 
to  an  ordinary  Englishman?  I'd  die  of  ennui  in  a  week. 
Oh !  yes,  I  would.    But  you  like  John,  really,  don't  you  ?" 

"I  tell  you  that  I  do,"  I  answered,  "but  really,  after  only 
two  days " 


40  THE  DARK  FOREST 

"Ah !  that's  so  English !  So  cautious !  How  I  hate  your 
caution !  Why  can't  you  say  at  once  that  you  haven't  made 
up  your  mind  about  him — ^because  that's  the  truth,  isn't  it  ? 
I  wish  he  would  not  sit  there,  looking  at  me,  and  not  talking 
to  the  others.  He  ought  to  talk  to  them,  but  he's  afraid 
that  they'll  laugh  at  his  Russian.  It's  not  very  good,  his 
Russian,  is  it?    I  can't  help  laughing  myself  sometimes!" 

Her  English  was  extremely  good.  Sometimes  she  used 
a  word  in  its  wrong  sense;  she  had  one  or  two  charming 
little  phrases  of  her  own:  "What  a  purpose  to?"  instead 
of :  "Why  ?"  and  sometimes  a  double  negative.  She  rolled 
her  r's  more  than  is  our  habit. 

I  said,  looking  straight  into  her  eyes: 

"It's  a  tremendous  thing  to  him,  his  having  you,  I  can 
see  that  although  I've  known  him  so  short  a  time.  He's  a 
very  lucky  man  and — and — if  his  luck  were  to  go,  I  think 
that  he'd  simply  die.  There!  That  isn't  a  very  English 
thing  to  have  said,  is  it  ?" 

"Why  did  you  say  it?"  she  cried  sharply.  "You  don't 
trust  me.    You  think " 

"I  think  nothing,"  I  answered.  "Only  he's  not  like 
ordinary  men.    He's  so  much  younger  than  his  age." 

She  gave  me  then  the  strangest  look.  The  light  seemed 
suddenly  to  die  out  of  her  face;  her  eyes  sought  mine  as 
though  for  help.    There  were  tears  in  them. 

"Oh!  I  do  want  to  be  good  to  him!"  she  whispered. 
Then  got  up  abruptly  and  joined  the  others. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  an  automobile  arrived  and  carried 
off  most  of  our  party.  I  was  compelled  to  remain  for 
several  hours,  and  intended  to  drive,  looking  forward  indeed 
to  the  long  quiet  silence  of  the  spring  evening.  Moved  by 
some  sudden  impulse  I  suggested  to  Trenchard  that  he 
flhould  wait  and  drive  with  me:     "The  car  will  be  very 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  41 

crowded,"  I  said,  "and  I  think  too  that  you'd  like  to  see 
some  of  the  country  properly.  It's  a  lovely  evening — only 
thirty  versts.  .  .  .  Will  you  wait  and  come  with  me?" 

He  agreed  at  once;  he  had  been,  all  day,  very  quiet, 
watching,  with  that  rather  clumsy  expression  of  his,  the 
expressiou  of  a  dog  who  had  been  taught  by  his  master  some 
tricks  which  he  had  half-forgotten  and  would  presently  be 
expected  to  remember. 

When  I  made  my  suggestion  he  flung  one  look  at  Marie 
Ivanovna.  She  was  busied  over  some  piece  of  luggage,  and 
half-turned  her  head,  smiling  at  him: 

"Ah,  do  go,  John — ^yes  ?  We  will  be  so  cr-rowded.  .  .  . 
It  will  be  very  nice  for  you  driving." 

I  fancied  that  I  heard  him  sigh.  He  tried  to  help  the 
ladies  with  their  luggage,  handed  them  the  wrong  parcels, 
dropped  delicate  packages,  apologised,  blushed,  was  very 
hot,  collected  dust  from  I  know  not  where.  .  .  .  Once  I 
heard  a  sharp,  angry  voice :  "John !  Oh !  .  .  ."  I  could 
not  believe  that  it  was  Marie  Ivanovna.  Of  course  she  was 
hot  and  tired  and  had  slept,  last  night,  but  little.  The  car, 
watched  by  an  inquisitive  but  strangely  apathetic  crowd  of 
peasants,  snorted  its  way  down  the  little  streets,  the  green 
trees  blowing  and  the  starlings  chattering.  In  a  moment 
the  starlings  and  our  two  selves  seemed  to  have  the  whole 
dead  little  town  to  ourselves. 

I  saw  quite  clearly  that  he  was  unhappy ;  he  could  never 
disguise  his  feelings;  as  he  waited  for  the  trap  to  appear 
he  had  the  same  lost  and  abandoned  appearance  that  he  had 
on  my  first  vision  of  him  at  the  Petrograd  station.  The 
soldier  who  was  to  drive  us  smiled  as  he  saw  me. 

"Only  thirty  versts,  your  honour  ...  or,  thank  God, 
even  less.  It  will  take  us  no  time."  He  was  a  large  clumsy 
creature,  like  an  eager  overgrown  puppy ;  he  was  one  of  the 


4-2  THE  DARK  FOREST 

four  or  five  iN'ikolais  in  our  Otriad,  and  he  is  to  be  noticed 
in  this  history  because  he  attached  himself  from  the  very 
beginning  to  Trenchard  with  that  faithful  and  utterly  un- 
questioning devotion  of  which  the  Russian  soldier  is  so 
frequently  capable.  He  must,  I  think,  have  seen  something 
helpless  and  unhappy  in  Trenchard's  appearance  on  this 
evening.  Sancho  to  our  Don  Quixote  he  was  from  that 
first  moment. 

"Yes,  he's  an  English  gentleman,"  I  said  when  he  had 
listened  for  a  moment  to  Trenchard's  Russian. 

"Like  yourself,"  said  !N"ikolai. 

"Yes,  ISTikolai.  You  must  look  after  him.  He'll  be 
strange  here  at  first." 

"Slushaiu  (I  hear)." 

That  was  all  he  said.  He  got  up  on  to  his  seat,  his  broad 
back  was  bent  over  his  horses. 

"Well,  and  how  have  things  been,  Nikolai,  busy  ?" 

"Nikak  nyet — not  at  all.    Very  quiet." 

"No  wounded?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  Barin,  for  two  weeks  now." 

"Have  you  liked  that  ?" 

"Tdk  totchno.     Certainly  yes." 

"No,  but  have  you  ?" 

"Tak  totchno,  Barin." 

Then  he  turned  and  gave,  for  one  swift  instant,  a  glance 
at  Trenchard,  who  was,  very  clumsily,  climbing  into  the 
carriage.  Nikolai  looked  at  him  gravely.  His  round,  red 
face  was  quite  expressionless  as  he  turned  back  and  began 
to  abjure  his  horses  in  that  half-affectionate,  half-abusive 
and  wholly  human  whispering  exclamation  that  Russians 
use  to  their  animals.    We  started. 

I  have  mentioned  in  these  pages  that  I  had  already  spent 
three  months  with  our  Otriad  at  the  Front.    I  cannot  now 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  48 

define  exactly  what  it  was  that  made  this  drive  on  this  first 
evening  something  utterly  distinct  and  apart  from  all  that 
I  had  experienced  during  that  earlier  period.  It  is  true 
that,  before,  I  had  been  for  almost  two  months  in  one  place 
and  had  seen  nothing  at  all  of  actual  warfare,  except  the 
feeding  and  bandaging  of  the  wounded.  But  I  had 
imagined  then,  nevertheless,  that  I  was  truly  "in  the  thick 
of  things,"  as  indeed,  in  comparison  with  my  Moscow  or 
Petrograd  life,  I  was.  We  had  not  now  driven  through 
the  quiet  evening  air  for  ten  minutes  before  I  knew,  with 
assured  certainty,  that  a  new  phase  of  life  was,  on  this  day, 
opening  before  me;  the  dark  hedges,  the  thin  fine  dust  on 
the  roads,  the  deep  purple  colour  of  the  air,  beat  at  my 
heart,  as  though  they  themselves  were  helping  with  quiet 
insistency  to  draw  me  into  the  drama.  And  yet  nothing 
could  have  been  more  peaceful  than  was  that  lovely  evening. 
The  dark  plum-colour  in  the  evening  sky  soaked  like  wine 
into  the  hills,  the  fields,  the  thatched  cottages,  the  streams 
and  the  little  woods. 

The  faint  saffron  that  lingered  below  the  crests  and  peaks 
of  rosy  cloud  showed  between  the  stems  of  the  silver  birches 
like  the  friendly  smile  of  a  happy  day.  The  only  human 
beings  to  be  seen  were  the  peasants  driving  home  their  cows ; 
far  on  the  horizon  the  Carpathian  mountains  were  purple 
in  the  dusk,  the  snow  on  their  highest  ridges  faintly  silver. 
There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  world  except  the  ring  of  our 
horses'  hoofs  upon  the  road.  And  yet  this  sinister  excite- 
ment hammered,  from  somewhere,  at  me  as  I  had  never  felt 
it  before.  It  was  as  though  the  lovely  evening  were  a 
painted  scene  lowered  to  hide  some  atrocity. 

"This  is  scarcely  what  you  expected  a  conquered  country 
to  look  like,  is  it?"  I  said  to  Trenchard. 


U  THE  DARK  FOREST 

He  looked  about  him,  then  said,  hesitating:  "!N"o  .  .  . 
that  is  ...  I  don't  know  what  I  expected." 

A  curved  moon,  dull  gold  like  buried  treasure,  rose  slowly 
above  the  hill ;  one  white  star  flickered  and  the  scents  of  the 
little  gardens  that  lined  the  road  grew  thicker  in  the  air  as 
the  day  faded. 

I  was  conscious  of  some  restraint  with  Trenchard :  "He's 
probably  wishing,"  I  thought,  "that  he'd  not  been  so  ex- 
pansive last  night.    He  doesn't  trust  me." 

Once  he  said  abruptly : 

"They'll  give  me  .  .  .  won't  they  .  .  .  work  to  do  ?  It 
would  be  terrible  if  there  wasn't  work.  I'm  not  so  ...  so 
stupid  at  bandaging.  I  learnt  a  lot  in  the  hospital  and 
although  I'm  clumsy  with  my  hands  generally  I'm  not  so 
clumsy  about  that " 

"Why  of  course,"  I  answered.  "When  there's  work 
they'll  be  only  too  delighted.  But  there  won't  always  be 
work.  You  must  be  prepared  for  that.  Sometimes  our 
Division  is  in  reserve  and  then  we're  in  reserve  too.  Some- 
times for  so  much  as  a  fortnight.  When  I  was  out  here 
before  I  was  in  one  place  for  more  than  two  months.  You 
must  just  take  everything  as  it  comes." 

"I  want  to  work,"  he  said.     "I  must." 

Once  again  only  he  spoke : 

"That  little  fat  man  who  travelled  with  us.  .  .  ." 

"Audrey  Vassilievitch,"  I  said. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  He  interests  me.     You  knew  him  before?" 

"Yes.     I've  known  him  slightly  for  some  years." 

"What  has  he  come  for?  He's  frightened  out  of  his 
life." 

"Frightened?" 

"Yes,  he  himself  told  me.  He  says  that  he's  very  nervous 
but  that  he  must  do  everything  that  every  one  else  does — for 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  45 

a  certain  reason.  He  got  very  excited  when  he  talked  to 
me  and  asked  me  whether  I  thought  it  would  all  be  very 
terrible." 

"He  is  a  nervous  fussy  little  man.  Russians  are  not 
cowards,  but  Andrey  Vassilievitch  lost  his  wife  last  year. 
He  was  very  devoted  to  her — very.  He  is  miserable  with- 
out her,  they  say.  Perhaps  he  has  come  to  the  war  to  forget 
her." 

I  was  surprised  at  Trenchard's  interest;  I  had  thought 
him  so  wrapt  in  his  own  especial  affair  that  nothing  outside 
it  could  occupy  him.    But  he  continued : 

"He  knew  the  tall  doctor — Nikitin — ^before,  didn't  he  ?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Nikitin  knew  his  wife." 

"Oh,  I  see.  .  .  .  Nikitin  seems  to  despise  him — I  think 
he  despises  all  of  us." 

"Oh  no.  That's  only  his  manner.  Many  Russians  look 
as  though  they  were  despising  their  neighbours  when,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  they're  really  despising  themselves.  They're 
very  fond  of  despising  themselves:  their  contempt  allows 
them  to  do  what  they  want  to." 

"I  don't  think  Nikitin  despises  himself.  He  looks  too 
happy — at  least,  happy  is  not  the  word.  Perhaps  triumph- 
ant is  what  I  mean." 

"Ah,  if  you  begin  speculating  about  Russian  expression 
you're  lost.  They  express  so  much  in  their  faces  that  you 
think  you  know  all  their  deepest  feelings.  But  they're  not 
their  deep  feelings  that  you  see.  Only  their  quick  transient 
emotions  that  change  every  moment."  I  fancied,  just  at 
that  time,  that  I  liad  studied  the  Russian  character  very 
intently  and  it  was  perhaps  agreeable  to  me  to  air  my 
knowledge  before  an  Englishman  who  had  come  to  Russia 
for  the  first  time  so  recently. 

But  Trenchard  did  not  seem  to  be  greatly  impressed  by 


46  THE  DAKK  FOREST 

my  cleverness.  He  spoke  no  more.  We  drove  then  in 
silence  whilst  the  moon,  rising  high,  caught  colour  into  its 
dim  outline,  like  a  scimitar  unsheathed ;  the  trees  and  hedges 
grew,  with  every  moment,  darker.  We  left  the  valley 
through  which  we  had  been  driving,  slowly  climbing  the 
hill,  and  here,  on  the  top  of  the  rising  ground,  we  had  our 
first  glimpse  of  the  outposts  of  the  war.  A  cottage  had 
been  posted  on  the  highest  point  of  the  hill;  now  all  that 
remained  of  it  was  a  sheet  of  iron,  crumpled  like,  paper, 
propped  in  the  centre  by  a  black  and  solitary  post,  trailing 
thence  on  the  ground  amongst  tumbled  bricks  and  refuse. 
This  sheet  of  iron  was  silver  in  the  moonlight  and  stood  out 
with  its  solitary  black  support  against  the  night  sky,  which 
was  now  breaking  into  a  million  stars.  Behind  it  stretched 
a  flat  plain  that  reached  to  the  horizon. 

"There,"  I  said  to  Trenchard,  "there's  your  first  glimpse 
of  actual  warfare.  What  do  you  say  to  every  house  in  your 
village  at  home  like  that?  It's  ghastly  enough  if  you  see 
it  as  I  have  done,  still  smoking,  with  the  looking-glasses 
and  flower-pots  and  pictures  lying  about." 

But  Trenchard  said  nothing. 

We  started  across  the  plain  and  at  once,  as  with  "Childe 
Roland": 

For  mark!  no  sooner  was  I  fairly  found 

Pledged  to  the  plain,  after  a  pace  or  two. 
Than,  pausing  to  throw  backward  a  last  view 

O'er  the  safe  road,  'twas  gone!  grey  plain  all  round: 

Nothing  but  plain  to  the  horizon's  bound. 

I  might  go  on;  nought  else  remained  to  do. 

Our  "safe  road"  was  a  rough  and  stony  track;  far  in 
front  of  us  on  the  rising  hill  that  bounded  the  horizon  a 
red  light  watched  us  like  an  angry  eye.     There  were  com- 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  47 

fields  that  stirred  and  whispered,  but  no  hedges,  no  trees,  and 
not  a  house  to  be  seen. 

Nikolai  turned  and  said:  "A  very  strong  battle  here, 
Your  Honour,  only  three  weeks  back." 

By  the  side  of  the  road  stood  a  little  cluster  of  wooden 
crosses  and  behind  them  were  two  large  holes  filled  now  with 
water  upon  which  the  moon  was  shining.  In  these  holes  the 
frogs  were  making  a  tremendous  noise. 

"That  was  shell,"  I  said  to  Trenchard,  pointing.  The 
frogs  drowned  my  voice;  there  was  something  of  a  melan- 
choly triumph  in  their  cry  and  their  voices  seemed  to  be 
caught  up  and  echoed  by  thousands  upon  thousands  of  other 
frogs  inhabiting  the  plain. 

We  came  then  upon  a  trench;  the  ridge  of  it  stretched 
like  a  black  cord  straight  across  the  cornfield  and  here 
for  a  moment  the  road  seemed  lost. 

I  got  out.  "Here,  Trenchard.  You  must  come  and  look 
at  this.  Your  first  Austrian  trench.  You  may  find  treas- 
ure." 

We  walked  along  in  single  file  for  some  time  and  then 
suddenly  I  lost  him :  the  trench,  just  where  we  were,  divided 
into  two.  I  waited  thinking  that  in  a  moment  he  would 
appear.  There  was  nothing  very  thrilling  about  my  trench ; 
it  was  an  old  one  and  all  that  remained  now  of  any  life  was 
the  blackened  ground  where  there  had  been  cooking,  the 
brown  soiled  cartridge-cases,  and  many  empty  tin  cans. 
And  then  as  I  waited,  leaning  forward  with  my  elbows  on 
the  earthwork,  the  frogs  the  only  sound  in  the  world,  I  was 
conscious  that  some  one  was  watching  me.  In  front  of  me 
I  could  see  the  red  light  flickering  and  turning  a  little  as 
it  seemed — behind  me  nothing  but  the  starlight.  I  turned, 
looked  back,  and  for  my  very  life  could  not  hold  myself 
from  calling  out : 


48  THE  DAEK  FOKEST 

"Who's  there?" 

I  waited,  then  called  more  loudly:  "Trenchard! 
Trenchard !"  I  laughed  at  myself,  leant  again  on  the  trench 
and  puffed  at  my  cigarette.  Then  once  more  I  was  abso- 
lutely assured  that  some  one  watched  me. 

I  called  again:     "Who's  there?" 

Then  quite  suddenly  and  to  my  own  absurd  relief  Trench- 
ard appeared,  stumbling  forward  over  some  roughness  in 
the  ground  almost  into  my  arms: 

"I  say,  it's  beastly  here,"  he  cried.  "Let's  go  on — ^the 
frogs.  ..." 

He  had  caught  my  hand. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "what  did  you  find?" 

"^Nothing — only  ...  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  It's  as  though 
some  one  were  watching  me.  It's  getting  late,  isn't  it  ?  The 
frogs.  .  .  ."  he  said  again — "I  hate  them.  They  seem  to 
be  triumphing." 

We  climbed  into  the  trap  and  drove  on  in  silence. 

I  was  half  asleep  when  at  last  we  left  the  plain  and 
dropped  down  into  the  valley  beyond.  I  was  surprised  to 
discover  on  looking  at  my  watch  that  it  was  only  eleven 
o'clock;  we  had  been,  it  seemed  to  me,  hours  crossing  that 
plain.  "It's  a  silly  thing,"  I  said  to  Trenchard,  "but  it 
would  take  quite  a  lot  to  get  me  to  drive  back  over  that 
again."    He  nodded  his  head.    We  drove  over  a  bridge,  up  a 

little  hill  and  were  in  the  rough  moonlit  square  of  O , 

our  destination.  Almost  immediately  we  were  climbing  the 
dark  rickety  stairs  of  our  dwelling.  There  were  lights, 
shouts  of  welcome,  Molozov  our  chief,  sisters,  doctors,  stu- 
dents, the  room  almost  filled  with  a  table  covered  with  food 
— cold  meat,  boiled  eggs,  sausage,  jam,  sweets,  and  of 
course  a  huge  samovar.  I  can  only  say  that  never  once, 
during  my  earlier  experience  with  the  Otriad,  had  I  been 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  49 

so  rejoiced  to  see  lights  and  friendly  faces.  I  looked  round 
for  Trenchard.  He  had  already  discovered  Marie  Ivanovna 
and  was  standing  with  her  at  the  window. 

I  learned  at  breakfast  the  next  morning  that  we  were 
at  once  to  move  to  a  house  outside  the  village.  The  fan- 
tastic illusions  that  my  drive  of  the  evening  before  had  bred 
in  me  now  in  the  clear  light  of  morning  entirely  deserted 
me.  Moreover  fantasy  had  slender  opportunity  of  en- 
couragement in  the  presence  of  Molozov. 

Molozov,  I  would  wish  to  say  once  and  for  all,  was  the 
heart  and  soul  of  our  enterprise.  Without  him  the  whole 
organisation  so  admirably  supported  by  the  energetic  ladies 
and  gentlemen  in  Petrograd,  would  have  tumbled  instantly 
into  a  thousand  pieces.  In  Molozov  they  had  discovered 
exactly  the  man  for  their  purpose;  a  large  land-owner,  a 
member  of  one  of  the  best  Russian  families,  he  had,  since 
the  beginning  of  the  war,  given  himself  up  to  the  adventure 
with  the  whole  of  his  energy,  with  the  whole  of  that  great 
capacity  for  organisation  that  the  management  of  his  estates 
had  already  taught  him.  He  was  in  appearance,  short, 
squarely  built,  inclined,  although  he  was  only  thirty-two 
or  three,  to  be  stout;  he  wore  a  dark  black  moustache  and 
his  hair  was  already  grey.  He  was  a  Russian  of  the  purest 
blood  and  yet  possessed  all  the  qualities  that  the  absolute 
Russian  is  supposed  to  lack.  He  was  punctual  to  the  mo- 
ment, sharply  accurate  in  all  his  affairs,  a  shrewd  psycholo- 
gist but  never  a  great  talker  and,  above  all,  a  consummate 
diplomatist.  As  I  watched  him  dealing  with  the  widely 
opposed  temperaments  and  dispositions  of  all  our  com- 
pany, soothing  one,  scolding  another,  listening  attentively, 
cutting  complaints  short,  comforting,  commanding,  solicit- 
ing, I  marvelled  at  the  good  fortune  of  that  Petrograd  com- 
mittee.   In  spite  of  his  kind  heart — and  he  was  one  of  the 


60  THE  DARK  FOREST 

kindest-hearted  men  I  have  ever  met — ^he  could  be  quite 
ruthless  in  dismissal  or  rebuke  when  occasion  arrived.  He 
had  a  great  gift  of  the  Russian  irony  and  he  could  be  also, 
like  all  Russians,  a  child  at  an  instant's  call,  if  something 
pleased  him  or  if  he  simply  felt  that  the  times  were  good 
and  the  sun  was  shining.  I  only  once,  in  a  moment  that  I 
shall  have,  later  on,  to  describe,  saw  him  depressed  and  out 
of  heart.     He  was  always  a  most  courteous  gentleman. 

I  drove  now  with  him  in  a  trap  at  the  head  of  the  Ohoz, 
as  our  long  train,  with  our  tents,  provisions,  boxes  and  beds, 
was  called.    We  were  a  fine  company  now  and  my  heart  was 
proud  as  I  looked  back  up  the  shining  road  and  saw  the  long 
winding  procession  of  carts  and  "sanitars"   and  remem- 
bered how  tiny  an  affair  we  had  been  in  the  beginning. 
''Well,"  said  Molozov,  "and  what  of  your  Englishman  ?" 
"Oh,  I  like  him,"  I  said  rather  hurriedly.     "He'll  do." 
"I'm  glad  you  think  so — very  glad.    I  was  not  sure  last 
night.  .  .  .  He  doesn't  speak  Russian  very  well,  does  he? 
He  was  tired  last  night.    I'm  very  glad  that  he  should  come, 
of  course,  but  it's  unpleasant  .  .  .  this  engagement  .  .  . 
the  Sister  told  me.    It's  a  little  difficult  for  all  of  us." 
"They  were  engaged  the  evening  before  they  left." 
"I  know  .  .  .  nothing  to  do  about  it,  but  it  would  have 
been  better  otherwise.    And  Audrey  Vassilievitch !    What- 
ever put  it  into  Anna  Mihailovna's  head  to  send  him !    He's 
a  tiresome  little  man — I've  known  him  earlier  in  Petrograd ! 
He's  on  my  nerves  already  with  his  chatter.     'No,  it's  too 
bad.     What  can  he  do  with  us?" 

"He  has  a  very  good  business  head,"  I  said.  "And  he's 
not  really  a  bad  little  man.  And  he's  very  anxious  to  do 
everything." 

"Ah,  I  know  those  people  who  are  'anxious  to  do  every- 
thing.' .         Dop't  I  know?     Don't  you  remember  Sister 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  51 

Anna  Maria  ?  anxious  to  do  everything,  anything — and  then, 
when  it  came  to  it,  not  even  the  simplest  handage.  .  .  . 
Nikitin's  a  good  man,"  he  added,  "one  of  the  best  doctors 
in  Petrograd.  We've  no  doctors  of  our  own  now,  you  know 
— except  of  course  Alexei  Petrovitch.  The  others  are  all 
from  the  Division " 

"Ah,  Semyonov !"  I  said.    "How  is  he  ?" 

At  that  moment  he  rode  up  to  us.  Seen  on  horseback 
Alexei  Petrovitch  Semyonov  appeared  a  large  man ;  he  was, 
in  reality,  of  middle  height  but  his  back  was  broad,  his 
whole  figure  thickly-set  and  muscular.  He  wore  a  thick 
square-cut  beard  of  so  fair  a  shade  that  it  was  almost  white ! 
His  whole  colour  was  pale  and  yet,  in  some  way,  expressive 
of  immense  health  and  vitality.  His  lips  showed  through 
his  beard  and  moustache  red  and  very  thick.  His  every 
movement  showed  great  self-possession  and  confidence.  He 
had,  indeed,  far  more  personality  'than  any  other  member 
of  our  Otriad. 

Although  he  was  an  extremely  capable  doctor  his  main 
business  in  life  seemed  to  be  self-indulgence.  He  appar- 
ently did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  word  "restraint." 
The  serious  questions  in  life  to  him  were  food,  drink, 
women. 

He  believed  in  no  woman's  virtue  and  no  man's  sincerity. 
He  hailed  any  one  as  a  friend  but  if  he  considered  some 
one  a  fool  he  said  so  immediately.  He  concealed  his  opin- 
ions from  no  one. 

When  he  was  at  work  his  indulgence  seemed  for  the  mo- 
ment to  leave  him.  He  was  a  surgeon  of  the  first  order 
and  loved  his  profession.  He  was  a  man  now  of  fifty,  but 
had  never  married,  preferring  a  long  succession  of  mis- 
tresses— women  who  had  loved  him,  at  whom  he  had  always 
laughed,  to  whom  he  had  been  kind  in  a  careless  fashion. 


62  THE  DARK  FOREST 

.  .  .  He  always  declared  that  no  woman  had  ever  touched 
his  heart. 

He  had  come  to  the  war  voluntarily,  forsaking  a  very 
lucrative  practice.  This  was  always  a  puzzle  to  me.  He 
had  no  romantic  notions  about  the  war,  no  altruistic  com- 
pulsions, no  high  conceptions  of  his  duty  ...  no  one  had 
worked  more  magnificently  in  the  war  than  he.  He  could 
not  be  said  to  be  popular  amongst  us;  we  were  all  of  us 
perhaps  a  little  afraid  of  him.  He  cared,  so  obviously, 
for  none  of  us.  But  we  admired  his  vitality,  his  courage, 
his  independence.  I  myself  was  assured  that  he  allowed 
us  to  see  him  only  with  the  most  casual  superficiality. 

As  he  rode  up  to  me  I  wondered  how  he  and  Nikitin 
would  fare.  These  were  two  personalities  worthy  of  atten- 
tion. Also,  what  would  he  think  of  Trenchard  ?  His  opin- 
ion of  any  one  had  great  weight  amongst  us. 

I  had  not  seen  him  last  night  and  he  leant  over  his  horse 
now  and  shook  hands  with  me  with  a  warm  friendliness 
that  surprised  me.  He  laughed,  joked,  was  evidently  in 
excellent  spirits.    He  rode  on  a  little,  then  came  back  to  us. 

"I  like  your  new  Sister,"  he  said.     "She's  charming." 

"She's  engaged,"  I  answered,  "to  the  new  Englishman." 

"Ah!  the  new  Englishman!"  He  laughed.  "Apologies, 
Ivan  Andreievitch  (myself),  to  your  country  .  .  .  but 
really  .  .  .  what's  he  going  to  do  with  us  ?" 

"He'll  work,"  I  said,  surprised  at  the  heat  that  I  felt  in 
Trenchard's  defence.    "He's  a  splendid  fellow." 

"I  have  no  doubt" — again  Semyonov  laughed.  "We  all 
know  your  enthusiasms,  Ivan  Andreievitch,  .  .  .  but  an 
Englishman!    Ye  Bogu!  .  .  ." 

"Engaged  to  that  girl !"  I  heard  him  repeat  to  himself  as 
again  he  rode  forward.    Trenchard,  little  Audrey  Vassilie- 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  53 

vitch,  Semyonov,  Nikitin  .  .  .  yes,  there  was  promise  of 
much  development  here. 

We  had  dropped  down  into  the  valley  and,  at  a  sudden 
turn,  saw  the  school-house  in  front  of  us.  It  is  before  me 
now  as  I  write  with  its  long  low  white-washed  two-storied 
front,  its  dormer-windows,  its  roof  faintly  pink  with  a  dark 
red  bell-tower  perched  on  the  top.  Behind  it  is  a  long  green 
field  stretching  to  where  hills,  faintly  blue  in  the  morning 
light,  rose,  with  very  gradual  slopes  against  the  sky.  To 
the  right  I  could  see  there  was  a  garden  hidden  now  by 
trees,  on  the  left  a  fine  old  bam,  its  thatched  roof  deep 
brown,  the  props  supporting  it  black  with  age.  In  front 
of  the  pillared  porch  there  was  a  little  square  of  white 
cobble-stones  and  in  the  middle  of  these  an  old  grey  sundial. 
The  whole  place  was  bathed  in  the  absolute  peace  of  the 
spring  morning. 

As  we  drove  up  a  little  old  lady  with  two  tiny  children 
clinging  to  her  skirts  came  to  the  porch.  I  could  see,  as  we 
came  up  to  her,  that  she  was  trembling  with  terror ;  she  put 
up  her  hand  to  her  white  hair,  clutched  again  desperately 
the  two  children,  found  at  last  her  voice  and  hoped  that  we 
would  be  "indulgent." 

Molozov  assured  her  that  she  would  suffer  in  no  kind  of 
way,  that  we  must  use  her  school  for  a  week  or  so  and 
that  any  loss  or  damage  that  she  incurred  would  of  course 
be  made  up  to  her.  She  was  then,  of  a  sudden,  immensely 
fluent,  explaining  that  her  husband — "a  most  excellent  hus- 
band to  me  in  every  way  one  might  say" — had  been  dead 
fifteen  years  now,  that  her  two  sons  were  both  fighting  for 
the  Austrians,  that  she  looked  after  the  school  assisted  by 
her  daughter.  These  were  her  grandchildren.  .  .  .  Such 
a  terrible  year  she,  in  all  her  long  life,  had  never  remem- 
bered.   She  .  .  . 


54  THE  DARK  FOREST 

The  arrival  of  the  rest  of  the  Oboz  silenced  her.  She 
remained,  with  wide-open  staring  eyes,  her  hand  at  her 
breast,  watching,  saying  absent-mindedly  to  the  children: 
"IsTow  Katja.  .  .  .  Now  Anna.  .  .  .  See  what  you're 
about!" 

The  school  was  spotlessly  clean.  In  the  schoolroom  the 
rough  benches  were  marked  with  names  and  crosses.  On 
the  whitewashed  walls  were  coloured  maps  of  Galicia  and 
tables  of  the  Austrian  kings  and  queens ;  on  the  blackboard 
still  an  unfinished  arithmetical  sum  and  on  the  master's 
desk  a  pile  of  exercise  books. 

In  a  moment  everything  was  changed;  the  sanitars  had 
turned  the  schoolroom  into  a  dormitory,  another  room  was 
to  be  our  dining-room,  another  a  bedroom  for  the  Sisters. 
In  the  high  raftered  kitchen  our  midday  meal  was  already 
cooking;  the  little  cobbled  court  was  piled  high  with  lug- 
gage. In  the  field  beyond  the  house  the  sanitars  had  pitched 
their  tents. 

I  walked  out  into  the  little  garden — a  charming  place 
with  yew  hedges,  a  lichen-covered  well  and  old  thick  apple- 
trees,  and  here  I  found  an  old  man  in  a  broad-brimmed 
straw  hat  tending  the  bees.  The  hives  were  open  and  he 
was  working  with  a  knife  whilst  the  bees  hung  in  a 
trembling  hovering  cloud  about  him.  I  spoke  to  him  but 
he  paid  no  attention  to  me  at  all.  I  watched  him  then 
spoke  again ;  he  straightened  himself  then  looked  at  me  for 
a  moment  with  eyes  full  of  scorn.  Words  of  fury,  of  abuse 
perhaps,  seemed  to  tremble  on  his  lips,  then  shaking  his 
head  he  turned  his  back  upon  me  and  continued  his  work. 
Behind  us  I  could  hear  the  soldiers  breaking  the  garden- 
fence  to  make  stakes  for  their  tents. 

Here  we  were  for  a  fortnight  and  it  was  strange  to  me, 
in  the  days  of  stress  and  excitement  that  followed,  to  look 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  6S 

back  to  that  fortnight  and  remember  that  we  had,  so  many 
of  us,  been  restless  and  discontented  at  the  quiet  of  it. 
Oddly  enough,  of  all  the  many  backgrounds  that  were,  dur- 
ing the  next  months,  to  follow  in  procession  behind  me,  there 
only  remain  to  me  with  enduring  vitality :  this  school-house 

at  O ,  the  banks  of  the  River  iN^estor  which  I  had  indeed 

good  reason  to  remember,  and  finally  the  forest  of  S . 

How  strange  a  contrast,  that  school-house  with  its  little 
garden  and  white  cobbles  and  that  forest  which  will,  to  the 
end  of  my  life,  ever  haunt  my  dreams. 

And  yet,  by  its  very  contrast,  how  fitting  a  background 
to  our  Prologue  this  school-house  made !  I  wonder  whether 
Nikitin  sees  it  still  in  his  visions?  Trenchard  and  Sem- 
yonov  .  .  .  does  it  mean  anything  to  them,  where  they 
now  are?  First  of  them  all,  Marie  Ivanovna.  ...  I  see 
her  still,  bending  over  the  well  looking  down,  then  suddenly 
flinging  her  head  back,  laughing  as  we  stood  behind  her, 
the  sunlight  through  the  apple-trees  flashing  in  her  eyes. 
.  .  .  That  fortnight  must  be  to  many  of  us  of  how  ironic, 
of  how  tragic  a  tranquillity ! 

So  we  settled  down  and  did  our  best  to  become  happily 
accustomed  to  one  another.  Our  own  immediate  company 
numbered  twenty  or  so — Molozov,  two  doctors,  myself, 
Trenchard  and  Audrey  Vassilievitch,  the  two  new  Sisters 
and  the  three  former  ones,  five  or  six  young  Russians,  gen- 
tlemen of  ease  and  leisure  who  had  had  some  "bandaging" 
practice  at  the  Petrograd  hospitals,  and  three  very  young 
medical  students,  directly  attached  to  our  two  doctors.  In 
addition  to  these  there  were  the  doctors,  Sisters  and  students 
belonging  to  the  army  itself — ^the  Sixty-Fifth  Division  of 
the  Ninth  Army.  These  sometimes  lived  with  us  and  some- 
times by  themselves ;  they  had  at  their  head  Colonel  Oblon- 
sky,  a  military  doctor  of  much  experience  and  wide  knowl- 


56  THE  DARK  FOREST 

edge.  There  were  also  the  regular  sanitars,  some  thirty  or 
forty,  men  who  were  often  by  profession  schoolmasters  or 
small  merchants,  of  a  better  class  for  the  most  part  than  the 
ordinary  soldier. 

It  is  not,  of  course,  my  intention  to  describe  with  any 
detail  the  individuals  of  this  company.  I  have  chosen  al- 
ready those  of  us  who  are  especially  concerned  with  my 
present  history,  but  these  others  made  a  continually  fluctuat- 
ing and  variable  background,  at  first  confusing  and,  to  a 
stranger,  almost  terrifying.  When  the  army  doctors  and 
Sisters  dined  with  us  we  numbered  from  thirty  to  forty 
persons:  sometimes  also  the  oflScers  of  the  Staff  of  the 
Sixty-Fifth  came  to  our  table.  There  were  other  occasions 
when  every  one  was  engaged  on  one  business  or  another  and 
only  three  or  four  of  us  were  left  at  the  central  station  or 
"Punkt,"  as  it  was  called. 

And,  of  all  these  persons,  who  now  stands  out?  I  can 
remember  a  Sister,  short,  plain,  with  red  hair,  who  felt 
that  she  was  treated  with  insufficient  dignity,  whose  voice 
rising  in  complaint  is  with  me  now ;  I  can  see  her  small  red- 
rimmed  eyes  watching  for  some  insult  and  then  the  curl  of 
her  lip  as  she  snatched  her  opportunity.  ...  Or  there  was 
the  jolly,  fat  Sister  who  had  travelled  with  us,  an  admirable 
worker,  but  a  woman,  apparently,  with  no  personal  life  at 
all,  no  excitements,  dreads,  angers,  dejections.  Upon  her 
the  war  made  no  impression  at  all.  She  spoke  sometimes  to 
us  of  her  husband  and  her  children.  She  was  not  greedy, 
nor  patriotic,  neither  vain  nor  humble,  neither  egoistic  nor 
unselfish.     She  was  simply  reliable. 

Or  there  was  the  tall  gaunt  Sister,  intensely  religious 
and  serious.  She  was  regarded  by  all  of  us  as  an  excellent 
wom^n,  but  of  course  we  did  not  like  her. 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  57 

One  would  say  to  another:     "Sister  K ,  what  an 

excellent  worker!" 

"Yes.    How  she  works !" 

"Splendid!    Splendid!" 

When  owing  to  the  illness  of  her  old  mother  she  was  com- 
pelled to  return  to  Petrograd  what  relief  we  all  felt !  How 
gay  was  our  supper  the  night  of  her  departure !  There  was 
something  very  childish  at  the  heart  of  all  of  us. 

Of  the  young  gentlemen  from  Petrograd  I  remember 
only  three.  The  family  name  of  one  was  Ivanoff,  but  he 
was  always  known  to  the  Otriad  as  Goga,  a  pet  diminutive 
of  George.  He  was  perhaps  the  youngest  person  whom 
I  have  ever  known.  He  must  have  been  eighteen  years  of 
age;  he  looked  about  eleven,  with  a  round  red  face  and 
wide-open  eyes  that  expressed  eternal  astonishment.  Like 
Mr.  Toots',  his  mind  was  continually  occupied  with  his 
tailor  and  he  told  me  on  several  occasions  that  he  hoped  I 
should  visit  him  in  Petrograd  because  there  in  the  house  of 
his  mother  he  had  many  splendid  suits,  shirts,  ties,  that  it 
would  give  him  pleasure  to  show  me.  In  spite  of  this  little 
weakness,  he  showed  a  most  energetic  character,  willing  to 
do  anything  for  anybody,  eager  to  please  the  whole  world. 
I  can  hear  his  voice  now : 

"Yeh  Bogu!  Ivan  Andreievitch !  .  .  .  Imagine  my  posi- 
tion !  There  was  General  Polinoff  and  the  whole  Staff.  .  .  . 
What  to  do  ?  Only  three  versts  from  the  position  too  and 
already  six  o'clock.  .  .  ." 

Or  there  was  another  serious  gentleman,  whose  mind  was 
continually  occupied  with  Russia :  "It  may  be  difficult  for 
you,  Ivan  Andreievitch,  to  see  with  our  eyes,  but  for  those 
of  us  who  have  Russia  in  our  hearts  .  .  .  what  rest  or  peace 
can  there  be  ?    I  can  assure  you.  .  .  ." 

He  wore  pince-nez  and  with  his  long  pear-shaped  head, 


58  THE  DARK  FOREST 

shaven  to  the  skin,  his  white  cheeks,  protruding  chin  and 
long  heavy  white  hands  he  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  a 
large  fish  hanging  on  a  nail  at  a  fishmonger's.  He  worked 
always  in  a  kind  of  cold  desperate  despair,  his  pince-nez 
slipping  off  his  shiny  nose,  his  mouth  set  grimly.  "What 
is  the  use?"  he  seemed  to  say,  "of  helping  these  poor 
wounded  soldiers  when  Russia  is  in  such  a  desperate  con- 
dition?   Tell  me  that!" 

Or  there  was  a  wild  rough  fellow  from  some  town  in 
Little  Russia,  a  boy  of  the  most  primitive  character,  no 
manners  at  all  and  a  heart  of  shining  gold.  Of  life  he  had 
the  very  wildest  notions.  He  loved  women  and  would  sing 
Southern  Russian  songs  about  them.  He  had  a  strain  of 
fantasy  that  continually  surprised  one.  He  liked  fairy 
tales.  He  would  say  to  me :  "There's  a  tale,  Ivan  Andrei- 
evitch,  about  a  princess  who  lived  on  a  lake  of  glass.  There 
was  a  forest,  you  know,  round  the  lake  and  all  the  trees  were 
of  gold.  The  pond  was  guarded  by  three  dwarfs.  I  myself, 
Ivan  Andreievitch,  have  seen  a  dwarf  in  Kiev  no  higher 
than  your  leg,  and  in  our  town  they  say  there  was  once  a 
whole  family  of  dwarfs  who  lived  in  a  house  in  the  chief 
street  in  our  town  and  sold  potatoes.  ...  I  don't  know. 
.  .  .  People  tell  one  such  things.  But  for  the  rest  of  that 
tale,  do  you  remember  how  it  goes  ?" 

He  could  ride  any  horse,  carry  any  man,  was  never  tired 
nor  out  of  heart.  He  had  the  vaguest  ideas  about  the  war. 
"I  knew  a  German  once  in  our  town,"  he  told  me.  "I 
always  hated  him.  .  .  .  He  was  going  to  Petrograd  to  make 
his  fortune.  I  hope  he's  dead."  This  fellow  was  called 
Petrov. 

My  chief  interest  during  this  fortnight  was  to  watch  the 
fortunes  of  Marie  Ivanovna  and  Trenchard  with  their  new 
companions.    It  was  instantly  apparent  that  Marie  Ivanovna 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  69 

■was  a  success.  On  the  second  day  after  our  arrival  at  the 
school-house  there  were  continual  exclamations :  "But  how 
charming  the  new  Sister!  How  sympathetic!  .  .  .  Have 
you  talked  to  the  new  Sister  ?" 

Even  Sister  K ,  so  serious  and  religious,  approved. 

It  was  evident  at  once  that  Marie  Ivanovna  was,  on  her  side, 
delighted  with  every  one.  I  could  see  that  at  present  she 
was  assured  that  what  she  wanted  from  life  would  be 
granted  to  her.  She  gave  herself,  with  complete  confidence, 
to  any  one  and  every  one,  and,  with  that  triumphing  vitality 
that  one  felt  in  her  from  the  first  moment  of  meeting  her, 
she  carried  all  before  her.  In  the  hospital  at  Petrograd  they 
had  been,  I  gathered,  "all  serious  and  old,"  had  treated  her 
I  fancy  with  some  sternness.  Here,  at  any  rate,  "serious 
and  old"  she  would  not  find  us.  We  welcomed,  with  joy, 
her  youth,  her  enthusiasm,  her  happiness. 

Semyonov,  who  never  disguised  nor  restrained  his  feel- 
ings, was,  from  the  first  instant,  strangely  attracted  to  her. 
She,  I  could  see,  liked  him  very  much,  felt  in  him  his 
strength  and  capacity  and  scorn  of  others.  Molozov  also 
yielded  her  his  instant  admiration.  He  always  avoided  any 
close  personal  relationship  with  any  of  us  but  I  could  see 
that  he  was  delighted  with  her  vitality  and  energy.  She 
pleased  the  older  Sisters  by  her  frank  and  quite  honest 
desire  to  be  told  things  and  the  younger  Sisters  by  her 
equally  honest  admiration  of  their  gifts  and  qualities.  She 
was  honest  and  sincere,  I  do  believe,  in  every  word  and 
thought  and  action.  She  had,  in  many  ways,  the  naive 
purity,  the  unconsidered  faith  and  confidence  of  a  child  still 
in  the  nursery.  She  amazed  me  sometimes  by  her  igno- 
rance; she  delighted  me  frequently  by  her  refreshing  truth 
and  straightforwardness.     She  felt  a  little,  I  think,  that  I 


60  THE  DARK  FOREST 

did  not  yield  her  quite  the  extravagant  admiration  of  the 
others.    I  was  Trenchard's  friend.  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  was  now  Trenchard's  friend.  What  had  occurred 
since  that  night  in  the  train,  when  I  had  felt,  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  time,  nothing  but  irritation  ?  Frankly, 
I  do  not  know.  It  may  be,  partly,  that  he  was  given  to  me 
by  the  rest  of  the  Otriad.  He  was  spoken  of  now  as  "my" 
Englishman.  And  then,  poor  Trenchard !  .  .  .  How,  dur- 
ing this  fortnight,  he  was  unhappy!  It  had  begun  with 
him  as  I  had  foreseen.  In  the  first  place  he  had  been  dis- 
mayed and  silenced  by  the  garrulity  of  his  new  companions. 
It  had  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  understood  nothing  of 
their  conversation,  that  he  was  in  the  way,  that  finally  he 
was  more  lonely  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life  before. 
Then,  however  strongly  he  might  to  himself  deny  it,  he  had 
arrived  in  Russia  with  what  Nikitin  called  "his  romantic 
notions."  He  had  read  his  Dostoevski  and  Turgenev; 
he  had  looked  at  those  books  of  Russian  impressions  that 
deal  in  nothing  but  snow,  ikons,  and  the  sublime  simplicity 
of  the  Russian  peasant.  He  was  a  man  whose  circumstances 
had  led  him  to  believe  profoundly  in  his  own  incapacity, 
unpopularity,  ignorance.  For  a  moment  his  love  had  given 
him  a  new  confidence  but  now  how  was  that  same  love  de- 
serting him  ?  He  had  foreseen  a  glorious  campaign,  his  lady 
and  himself  side  by  side,  death  and  terror  flying  before  him. 
He  found  himself  leading  a  country  life  of  perfect  quiet 
and  comfort,  even  as  he  might  have  led  it  in  England,  with 
a  crowd  of  people,  strangely  unfamiliar  to  him,  driving 
him,  as  he  had  been  driven  in  the  old  days,  into  a  host  of 
awkwardnesses,  confusions  and  foolishnesses.  I  could  not 
forgive  Marie  Ivanovna  for  her  disappointment  in  him, 
and  yet  I  could  understand  how  different  he  must  have 
appeared  to  her  during  those  last  days  in  Petrograd,  when 


THE  SCHOOL-HOFSE  ei 

alone  with  her  and  on  fire  with  love,  he  had  shown  his  true 
and  bravest  self  to  her.  She  was  impatient,  she  had  hoped 
that  the  others  would  see  him  as  she  had  seen  him.  She 
watched  them  as  they  expressed  their  surprise  that  he  was 
not  the  practical,  fearless  and  unimaginative  Englishman 
who  was  their  typical  figure.  Whilst  he  found  them  far 
from  the  Karamazovs,  the  Kaskolnikoffs,  of  his  imagination, 
they  in  their  turn  could  not  create  the  "sportsman"  and 
"man  of  affairs"  whom  they  had  expected. 

To  all  of  this  Semyonov  added,  beyond  question,  his 
personal  weight.  He  had  from  the  first  declared  Trenchard 
"a  ridiculous  figure."  Whilst  the  others  were  unfailingly 
kind,  hospitable  and  even  indulgent  to  Trenchard,  Semyo- 
nov was  openly  satirical,  making  no  attempt  to  hide  his 
sarcastic  irony.  I  do  not  know  how  much  Trenchard's  en- 
gagement to  Marie  Ivanovna  had  to  do  with  this,  but  I  know 
that  "my  Englishman"  could  not  to  his  misfortune  have 
had  a  more  practical,  more  eflScient  figure  against  whom  to 
be  contrasted  than  Semyonov. 

During  these  weeks  I  think  that  I  hated  Semyonov. 
There  was,  however,  one  silent  observer  of  all  this  business 
upon  whose  personal  interference  I  had  not  reckoned.  This 
was  Nikitin,  who,  at  the  end  of  our  first  week  at  the  school- 
house,  broke  his  silence  in  a  conversation  with  me. 

Nikitin,  although  he  spoke  as  little  as  possible  to  any  one, 
had  already  had  his  effect  upon  the  Otriad.  They  felt 
behind  his  silence  a  personality  that  might  indeed  bo  equal 
to  Semyonov's  own.  By  little  Audrey  Vassilievitch  they 
were  always  being  assured :  "Nikitin  I  A  most  remarkable 
man !  You  may  believe  me.  I  have  known  him  for  many 
years.    A  great  friend  of  my  poor  wife's  and  mine.  .  .  ." 

They  did  not  appear  to  be  great  friends.     Nikitin  quite 


62  THE  DAKK  FOKEST 

obviously  avoided  the  little  man  whenever  it  was  possible. 
But  then  he  avoided  us  all. 

Upon  a  lovely  afternoon  Nikitin  and  I  were  alone  in  the 
wild  little  garden,  he  lying  full  length  on  the  grass,  I 
reading  a  very  ancient  English  newspaper,  with  my  back 
against  a  tree. 

He  looked  up  at  me  with  a  swift  penetrating  glance,  as 
though  he  were  seeing  me  for  the  first  time  and  would  wish 
at  once  to  weigh  my  character  and  abilities. 

"Your  Englishman,"  he  said.  "He's  not  happy,  I'm 
afraid." 

"1^0,"  I  said,  feeling  the  surprise  of  his  question — it  had 
become  almost  a  tradition  with  me  that  he  never  spoke  unless 
he  were  first  spoken  to.  "He  feels  strange  and  a  little 
lonely,  perhaps  .  .  .  it's  natural  enough!" 

"Yes,"  repeated  IlTikitin,  "it's  natural  enough.  What 
did  he  come  for?" 

"Oh,  he'll  be  all  right,"  I  said  hastily,  "in  a  day  or  two." 

N'ikitin  lay  on  his  back  looking  at  the  green,  layer  upon 
layer,  light  and  dark,  with  golden  fragments  of  broken 
light  leaping  in  the  breeze  from  branch  to  branch.  "Why 
did  he  come?  What  did  he  expect  to  see?  I  know  what 
he  expected  to  see — romantic  Russia,  romantic  war.  He 
expected  to  find  us,  our  hearts  exploding  with  love,  God's 
smile  on  our  simple  faces,  God's  simple  faith  in  our  souls. 
.  .  .  He  has  been  told  by  his  cleverest  writers  that  Russia 
is  the  last  stronghold  of  God.  And  war  ?  He  thought  that 
he  would  be  plunged  into  a  scene  of  smoke  and  flame, 
shrapnel,  horror  upon  horror,  danger  upon  danger.  He 
finds  instead  a  country  house,  meals  long  and  large,  no 
sounds  of  cannon,  not  even  an  aeroplane.  Are  we  kind  to 
him  ?  Not  at  all.  .  .  .  We  are  not  unkind  but  we  simply 
have  other  things  to  think  about,  and  because  we  are  primi- 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  68 

tive  people  we  do  what  we  want  to  do,  feel  what  we  want  to 
feel,  and  show  quite  frankly  our  feelings.  He  is  not  what 
we  expected,  so  that  we  prefer  to  fill  our  minds  with  things 
that  do  not  give  us  trouhle.  Later,  like  all  Englishmen,  he 
will  dismiss  us  as  savages,  or,  if  he  is  of  the  intellectual 
kind,  he  will  talk  about  our  confusing  subtleties  and  contra- 
dictions. But  we  are  neither  savages  nor  confusing.  We 
have  simply  a  skin  less  than  you.  .  :  .  We  are  a  very  young 
people,  a  real  and  genuine  Democracy,  and  we  care  for  quite 
simple  things,  women,  food,  sleep,  money,  quite  simply  and 
without  restraint.  We  show  our  eagerness,  our  disgust,  our 
disappointment,  our  amusement  simply  as  the  mood  moves 
us.  In  Moscow  they  eat  all  day  and  are  not  ashamed. 
Why  should  they  be?  In  Kiev  they  think  always  about 
women  and  do  not  pretend  otherwise  ...  and  so  on.  We 
have,  of  course,  no  sense  of  time,  nor  method,  nor 
system.  If  we  were  to  think  of  these  things  we  would 
be  compelled  to  use  restraint  and  that  would  bother  us. 
We  may  lose  the  most  important  treasure  in  the  world 
by  not  keeping  an  appointment  ...  on  the  other  hand  we 
have  kept  our  freedom.  We  care  for  ideas  for  which  you 
care  nothing  in  England  but  we  have  a  sure  suspicion  of  all 
conclusions.  We  are  pessimists,  one  and  all.  Life  cannot 
be  good.  We  ironically  survey  those  who  think  that  it  can. 
.  .  .  We  give  way  always  to  life  but  when  things  are  at 
their  worst  then  we  are  relieved  and  even  happy.  Here  at 
any  rate  we  are  on  safe  ground.  We  have  much  sentiment, 
but  it  may,  at  any  moment,  give  way  to  some  other  emotion. 
We  are  therefore  never  to  be  relied  upon,  as  friends,  as  ene- 
mies, as  anything  you  please.  Except  this — that  in  the 
heart  of  every  Russian  there  is  a  passionate  love  of  good- 
ness. We  are  tolerant  to  all  evil,  to  all  weakness  because 
we  ourselves  are  weak.     We  confess  our  weakness  to  any 


64  THE  DAEK  FOEEST 

one  because  that  permits  us  to  indulge  in  it — ^but  when  we 
see  in  another  goodness,  strength,  virtue,  we  worship  it. 
You  may  bind  us  to  you  with  bands  of  iron  by  your  virtues 
— never,  as  all  foreigners  think,  by  your  vices.  In  this, 
too,  we  are  sentimentalists.  We  may  not  believe  in  God 
but  we  have  an  intense  curiosity  about  Him — a  curiosity 
that  with  many  of  us  never  leaves  us  alone,  compels  us  to 
fill  our  lives,  to  fill  our  lives.  .  .  .  We  love  Russia.  .  .  . 
But  that  is  another  thing.  .  .  .  !N^ever  forget  too  that  be- 
hind every  Russian's  simplicity  there  is  always  his  Ideal — 
his  secret  Ideal,  perhaps,  that  he  keeps  like  an  ikon  sacred 
in  his  heart.  Yes,  of  every  Russian,  even  of  the  worst  of  us, 
that  is  true.  And  it  complicates  our  lives,  delivers  us  to 
our  enemies,  defeats  all  our  worldly  aims,  renders  us  help- 
less at  the  moment  when  we  should  be  most  strong.  But 
it  is  good,  before  God,  that  it  should  be  so.  ..." 

He  suddenly  sprang  up  and  stood  before  me.  "To- 
morrow I  shall  think  otherwise — and  yet  this  is  part  of  the 
truth  that  I  have  told  you.  .  .  .  And  your  Englishman  ?  I 
like  him  ...  I  like  him.  That  girl  will  treat  him  badly, 
of  course.  How  can  she  do  otherwise?  He  sees  her  like 
Turgenev's  Liza.  Well,  she  is  not  that.  No  girl  in  Russia 
to-day  is  like  Turgenev's  Liza.  And  it's  a  good  thing." 
He  smiled — ^that  strange,  happy,  confident  mysterious  smile 
that  I  had  seen  first  on  the  Petrograd  platform.  Then  he 
turned  and  walked  slowly  towards  the  house. 

What  Nikitin  had  said  about  Trenchard's  expectation  of 
"romantic  war"  was  perhaps  true,  in  different  degrees,  of 
all  of  us.  Even  I,  in  spite  of  my  earlier  experience,  felt 
some  irritation  at  this  delay,  and  to  those  of  us  who  had 
arrived  flaming  with  energy,  bravery,  resolution  to  make 
their  name  before  Europe,  this  feasting  in  a  country  garden 
seemed  a  deliberate  insult.     Was  this  "romantic  war?" 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  66 

These  long  meals  under  the  trees,  deep  sleeps  in  the  after- 
noon when  the  pigeons  cooed  round  the  little  red  bell-tower 
and  the  pump  creaked  in  the  cobbled  courtyard  and  the  bees 
hummed  in  the  garden?  Bees,  cold  water  shining  deep 
in  the  well,  and  the  samovar  chuckling  behind  the  flower- 
beds, and  fifteen  versts  away  the  Austrians  challenging  the 
Russian  nation!  .  .  .  "You  know,"  Audrey  Vassilievitch 
said  to  me,  "it's  very  disheartening." 

Marie  Ivanovna  at  the  end  of  the  first  week  spoke  her 
mind.  I  found  her  one  evening  before  supper  leaning  over 
the  fence,  gazing  across  the  long  flat  fiel4,  pale  gold  in  the 
dusk  with  the  hills  like  grey  clouds  beyond  it. 

"They  tell  me,"  she  said,  turning  to  me,  "that  we  may 
be  another  fortnight  like  this." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "it's  quite  possible,  or  even  longer.  We 
can't  provide  wounded  and  battle*  iair  you  if  there  aren't 
any." 

"But  there  are  I"  she  cried.  "Isn't  the  whole  of  Europe 
fighting  and  isn't  it  simply  disgusting  of  us  to  be  sitting 
down  here,  eating  and  sleeping,  just  as  though  we  were 
in  a  dacha  in  the  country?  At  least  in  the  hospital  in 
Petrograd  I  was  working  .  .  .  here.  .  .  ." 

"We've  got  to  stick  to  our  Division,"  I  answered.  "They 
can't  have  it  in  reserve  very  long.  When  it  goes,  we'll  go. 
The  whole  secret  of  leading  this  life  out  here  is  taking 
exactly  what  comes  as  completely  as  you  can  take  it.  If  it's 
a  time  for  sleeping  and  eating,  sleep  and  eat — there'll  be 
days  enough  when  you'll  get  nothing  of  either." 

She  laughed  then,  swinging  round  to  me,  with  the  dusk 
round  her  white  nurse's  cap  and  her  eyes  dark  with  her 
desires  and  hopes  and  disappointments. 

"Oh,  I've  no  right  to  be  discontented.  .  .  .  Every  one  is 
80  good  to  me.    I  love  them  all — even  you,  Mr.  Durward. 


66  THE  DARK  FOREST 

But  I  want  to  begin,  to  begin,  to  begin !  I  want  to  see  what 
it's  like,  to  find  what  there  is  there  that  frightens  them,  or 
makes  them  happy.  We  had  a  young  officer  in  our  hospital 
who  died.  He  was  too  ill  .  .  .  he  could  tell  us  nothing,  but 
he  was  so  excited  by  something  .  .  .  something  he  was  in 
the  middle  of .  .  .  .  Who  was  it  ?  What  was  it  ?  I  mitst 
be  there,  hunt  it  out,  find  that  I'm  strong  enough  not  to  be 
afraid  of  armjthing"  She  suddenly  dropped  her  voice, 
changing  with  sharp  abruptness.  "And  John?  He's  not 
happy  here,  is  he  ?" 

"You  should  know,"  I  answered,  "better  than  any  of  us." 

*^Why  should  I  know?"  she  replied,  .flaming  out  at  me. 
"You  always  blame  me  about  him,  but  you  are  unfair.  I 
want  him  to  be  happy — ^I  would  make  him  so  if  I  could. 
But  he's  so  strange,  so  different  from  his  time  at  the  hos- 
pital. He  will  scarcely  speak  to  me  or  to  any  one.  Why 
can't  he  be  agreeable  to  every  one  ?  I  want  them  to  like  him 
but  how  can  they  when  he  won't  talk  to  them  and  runs 
away  if  they  come  near  him?  He's  disappointed  perhaps 
at  its  being  so  quiet  here.  It  isn't  what  he  expected  to 
find  it,-  but  then  isn't  that  the  same  for  all  of  us  ?  And  we 
don't  sulk  all  day.  He's  disappointed  with  me  perhaps  but 
he  won't  tell  me  what  he  wants.  If  I  ask  him  he  only  says 
'Oh,  it's  all  i^right — it's  all  r-right' — I  hate  that  'all  r-right' 
of  your  language — so  stupid!  What  a  purpose  not  to  say 
if  he  wants  something  ?" 

I  said  nothing.  My  silence  urged  her  to  a  warmer  de- 
fence. 

"And  then  he  makes  such  mistakes — always  everything 
wrong  that  he's  asked  to  do.  Doctor  Semyonov  laughs  at 
him — but  of  course!  He's  like  a  little  boy,  a  man  as  old 
as  he  is.  And  Englishmen  are  always  so  practical,  capable. 
Oh !  speak  to  him,  Mr.  Durward;  you  can,  please.    If  I  say 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  67 

anything  he's  at  once  so  miserable.  ...  I  don't  understand, 
I  don't  understand!"  she  cried,  raising  her  hands  with  a 
little  despairing  gesture.  "How  can  he  have  been  like  that 
in  Petrograd,  and  now  like  this !" 

"Give  him  time,  Marie  Ivanovna,"  I  answered  her.  "This 
is  all  new  to  him,  confusing,  alarming.  He's  led  a  very 
quiet  life.  He's  very  sensitive.  He  cares  for  you  so  deeply 
that  the  slightest  thing  wounds  him.  He  would  hide  that 
if  he  could — it's  his  tragedy  that  he  can't." 

She  would  have  answered  had  not  supper  arrived  and 
with  it  our  whole  company.  Shall  I  ever  know  a  more  beau- 
tiful night  ?  As  we  sat  there  the  moon  came  up,  red-gold 
and  full;  the  stars  were  clustered  so  thickly  between  the 
trees  that  their  light  lay  heavy  like  smoke  upon  the  air. 
The  little  garden  seemed  to  be  never  still  as  our  candlelight 
blew  in  the  breeze ;  so  it  hovered  and  trembled  about  us,  the 
trees  bending  beneath  their  precious  load  of  stars,  shudder- 
ing in  their  happiness  at  so  good  an  evening. 

We  sat  there  as  though  we  had  known  that  it  was  to  be 
our  last  night  of  peace.  .  .  .  Many  times  the  glasses  of 
tea  were  filled,  many  times  the  little  blue  tin  boxes  of 
sweets  were  pushed  up  and  down  the  table,  many  times  the 
china  teapot  on  the  top  of  the  samovar  was  fed  with  fresh 
tea,  many  times  spoons  were  dipped  into  the  strawberry 
jam  and  then  plunged  into  the  glasses  of  tea,  such  being 
the  Russian  pleasure. 

There  occurred  then  an  unfortunate  incident.  Some  one 
had  said  something  about  England:  there  had  been  a  joke 
then  about  "sportsmen,"  some  allusion  was  made  to  some 
old  story  connected  with  myself,  and  I  had  laughingly  taken 
up  the  challenge.  Suddenly  Semyonov  leaned  across  the 
table  and  spoke  to  Trenchard.  Trenchard,  who  had  been 
Bilent  throughout  the  meal,  misunderstood  the  Russian, 


68  THE  DARK  FOREST 

thought  that  Semyonov  was  trying  to  insult  him,  and  sat 
there  colouring,  flaming  at  last,  silent.  We  all  of  us  felt 
the  awkwardness  of  it.  There  was  a  general  pause — Sem- 
yonov himself  drew  back  with  a  little  laugh. 

Suddenly  Marie  Ivanovna,  across  the  table,  in  English 
said  softly  but  with  a  strange  eager  hostility : 

"How  absurd !  ...  To  let  them  all  see  ...  to  let  them 
know.  .  .  ."  Perhaps  I,  who  was  sitting  next  to  her,  alone 
heard  her  words. 

The  colour  left  Trenchard's  face;  he  looked  at  her  once, 
then  got  up  and  left  the  table.  I  could  see  then  that  she 
was  distressed,  but  she  talked,  laughed  more  eagerly,  more 
enthusiastically  than  before.  Sometimes  I  saw  her  look 
towards  the  school-house. 

When  there  came  an  opportunity  I  rose  and  went  to  find 
him.  He  was  standing  near  his  bed,  his  back  to  the  door,  his 
hands  clenched. 

"I  say,  come  out  again — just  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened.   No  one  noticed  anything,  only  I  .  .  ." 

He  turned  to  me,  his  face  working  and  with  a  passionate 
gesture,  in  a  voice  that  choked  over  the  words,  he  cried: 
"She  should  not  have  said  it.  She  should  not  .  .  .  every 
one  there.  .  .  .  She  knew  how  it  would  wound  me.  .  .  . 
Semyonov.  .  .  ." 

He  positively  was  silent  over  that  name.  The  mild  ex- 
pression of  his  eyes,  the  clumsy  kindness  of  his  mouth  gave 
a  ludicrous  expression  to  his  rage. 

"Wait!     Wait!"  I  cried.     "Be  patient!" 

As  I  spoke  I  could  hear  him  in  the  railway  carriage: 

"I  am  mad  with  happiness.  .  .  .  God  forgive  me,  my 
heart  will  break." 

Breaking  from  me,  despair  in  his  voice,  he  whispered  to 
the  empty  room,  the  desolate  row  of  white  beds  watching 


THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  69 

him:  "I  always  knew  that  I  was  hopeless  .  .  .  hopeless 
.  .  .  hopeless." 

"Look  here,"  I  said.  "You  mustn't  take  things  so  hard. 
You  go  up  and  down.  .  .  .  Your  emotions  .  .  ." 

But  he  only  shook  his  head: 

"She  shouldn't  have  said  it — like  that — ^before  every 
one,"  he  repeated. 

I  left  him.  Afterwards  as  I  stood  in  the  passage,  white 
and  ghostly  in  the  moonlight,  something  suddenly  told  me 
that  this  night  the  prologue  of  our  drama  was  concluded. 

I  waited  on  the  steps  of  the  house,  heard  the  laughing 
voices  in  the  distance,  while  over  the  rest  of  the  world  there 
was  absolute  silence;  then  abruptly,  quite  sharply,  across 
the  long  low  fields  there  came  the  rumble  of  cannon.  Three 
times  it  sounded.  Then  hearing  no  more  I  returned  into 
the  house. 


CHAPTER  in 


THE    IH^VISIBLE    BATTI/E 


/^N  the  evening  of  the  following  day  Trenchard,  Andrey 
^-^    Vassilievitch   and   I   were   sent   with   sanitars   and 

wagons  to  the  little  hamlet  of  M ,  five  versts  only  from 

the  Position,  It  was  night  when  we  arrived  there ;  no  sound 
of  cannon,  only  on  the  high  hills  (the  first  lines  of  the  Car- 
pathians) that  faced  us  the  scattered  watchfires  of  our  own 
Sixty-Fifth  Division,  and  in  the  little  village  street  a  line 
of  cavalry  moving  silently,  without  a  spoken  word,  on  to 
the  high-road  heyond.  After  much  difficulty  (the  village 
was  filled  with  the  officers  of  the  Sixty-Fifth)  we  found  a 
kitchen  in  which  we  might  sleep.  Upon  the  rough  earth 
fioor  our  mattresses  were  spread,  my  feet  under  the  huge 
black  oven,  my  head  beneath  a  gilt  picture  of  the  Virgin 
and  Child  that  in  the  candlelight  bowed  and  smiled,  in  com- 
pany with  eight  other  pictures  of  Virgins  and  Children,  to 
give  us  confidence  and  encouragement. 

It  was  a  terrible  night.  On  a  high  pillared  bed  set  into 
the  farther  wall,  an  old  Galician  woman,  her  head  bound 
up  in  a  red  handkerchief,  knelt  all  night  and  prayed  aloud. 
Her  daughter  crouched  against  the  wall,  sleeping,  perhaps, 
but  nevertheless  rocking  ceaselessly  a  wooden  cradle  that 
hung  from  a  black  bar  in  the  ceiling.  In  this  cradle  lay  her 
eon,  aged  one  or  two,  and  once  and  again  he  cried  for  half 
an  hour  or  so,  protesting,  I  suppose,  against  our  invasion. 
There  was  a  smell  in  the  kitchen  of  sour  bread,  mice,  and 

70 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  71 

bad  water.  The  heat  was  terrible  but  the  old  lady  told  us 
that  the  grandchild  was  ill  and  would  certainly  die  were  the 
window  opened.  The  candle  we  blew  out  but  there  remained 
a  little  burning  lamp  under  the  picture  of  the  Virgin  im- 
mediately over  the  old  lady's  bed.  I  slept,  but  for  how 
long  I  do  not  know.  I  was  only  aware  that  suddenly  I 
was  awake,  staring  through  the  tiny  diamond-paned  win- 
dow, at  the  faint  white  light  now  breaking  in  the  sky.  I 
could  see  from  my  mattress  only  a  thin  strip  of  this  light 
above  the  heavy  mass  of  dark  forest  on  the  mountain-side. 

I  must  have  been  still  only  half-awake  because  I  could 
not  clearly  divide,  before  my  eyes,  the  true  from  the  false. 
I  could  see  quite  plainly  in  the  dim  white  shadow  the  face 
of  Trenchard;  he  was  not  asleep,  but  was  leaning  on  his 
elbow  staring  in  front  of  him.  I  could  see  the  old  woman 
with  her  red  handkerchief  kneeling  in  front  of  her  lamp 
and  her  prayer  came  like  the  turning  of  a  wheel,  harsh  and 
incessant.  The  cradle  creaked,  in  the  air  was  the  heavy 
smell,  and  suddenly,  beyond  the  window,  a  cock  crowed. 
These  things  were  real.  But  also  I  seemed  to  be  in  some 
place  much  vaster  than  the  stuffy  kitchen  of  the  night  be- 
fore. Under  the  light  that  was  with  every  minute  growing 
stronger,  I  could  fancy  that  many  figures  were  moving  in 
the  shadows ;  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  I  were  in  some  place 
where  great  preparations  were  being  made.  I  fancied  then 
that  I  could  discern  Marie  Ivanovna's  figure,  then  Nikitin, 
then  Semyonov,  then  Molozov.  .  .  .  There  was  a  great  si- 
lence but  I  felt  that  every  one  was  busily  occupied  in  mak- 
ing ready  for  some  affair.  This  was  with  half  my  con- 
sciousness— with  the  other  half  I  was  perfectly  aware  of 
the  actual  room,  of  Trenchard,  the  creaking  cradle  and  the 
rest. 

Then  the  forest  that  had  been  on  the  hills  seemed  to 


72  THE  DARK  FOREST 

draw  closer  to  the  house.  I  felt  that  it  had  invaded  the 
garden  and  that  its  very  branches  were  rubbing  against  the 
windows.  With  all  of  this  I  was  aware  that  I  was  imagin- 
ing some  occurrence  that  I  had  already  seen,  that  was  not, 
in  any  way,  new  to  me,  I  was  assured  of  the  next  event. 
When  we,  all  of  us,  Mario  Ivanovna,  Semyonov,  N^ikitin  and 
the  rest,  were  ready  we  should  move  out  into  the  forest, 
would  stand,  a  vast  company,  with  our  dogs  and  horses.  .  .  . 

Why,  it  was  Trenchard's  dream  that  I  was  seeing!  I 
was  merely  repeating  to  myself  his  own  imaginations — 
and  with  that  I  had  suddenly,  as  though  some  one  had  hyp- 
notised me,  fallen  back  into  a  heavy  dreamless  sleep.  It 
was  already  midday  when  I  was  wakened  by  little  Audrey 
Vassilievitch,  who,  sitting  on  my  bed  and  evidently  in  a 
state  of  the  very  greatest  excitement,  informed  me  that  Dr. 
Semyonov  and  the  Sisters  Marie  Ivanovna  and  Anna  Pe- 

trovna  had  arrived  from ,  and  that  we  might  be  off  at 

any  moment.  I  was  aware,  as  he  spoke,  of  a  great  stir  be- 
yond the  window  and  saw,  passing  up  through  the  valley, 
a  flood  of  soldiers,  infantry,  cavalry,  kitchens  with  clumsy 
black  funnels  bobbing  on  their  unsteady  wheels,  cannon, 
hundreds  of  carts;  the  soldiers  came  up  through  our  own 
garden  treading  down  the  cabbages,  stopping  at  the  well 
near  our  door  and  filling  their  tin  kettles,  tramping  up  the 
road,  spreading,  like  smoke,  in  the  far  distance,  up  the  high 
road  that  led  into  the  furthest  forest. 

"They  say — ^to-night — for  certain,"  said  Audrey  Vassilie- 
vitch, his  fat  hand  trembling  on  my  bed.  He  began  to  talk, 
his  voice  shaking  with  excitement.  "Do  you  know,  Ivan 
Andreievitch,  I  am  continually  surprised  at  myself :  *Here 
you  are,  Audrey  Vassilievitch,  here,  at  the  war.  What 
do  you  make  of  it  V  I  say  to  myself.  Just  consider.  .  .  . 
No,  but  seriously,  Ivan  Andreievitch,  of  course  I  must  seem 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  78 

to  all  of  you  something  of  a  comic  figure.  When  my  wife 
was  alive — ^how  I  wish  that  you  could  have  known  her! 
Such  a  remarkable  woman;  every  one  who  met  her  was 
struck  by  her  fine  character — when  my  wife  was  alive  I  had 
my  position  to  support.  That  I  should  have  been  a  comic 
figure  would  have  distressed  her.  But  now,  who  cares? 
!N'obody,  you  may  very  truly  say.  .  .  .  Well,  well.  But  the 
point  is  that  this  evening  we  shall  really  be  in  the  thick  of 
it.  And — ^may  I  tell  you  something,  Ivan  Andreievitch  ? 
Only  for  yourself,  because  you  are  an  Englishman  and  can 
be  trusted :  to  speak  quite  truthfully  I'm  frightened.  I  say 
to  myself  that  one  is  at  the  war  and  that  one  must  be  fright- 
ened at  nothing,  and  still  I  remain  frightened.  .  .  .  Fright- 
ened of  what?  ...  I  really  cannot  tell  you.  Death,  per- 
haps ?  But  no,  I  should  not  be  sorry  to  die — ^there  are  rea- 
sons. .  .  . 

"And  yet  although  I  should  not  be  sorry  to  die,  I  remain 
frightened — all  night  I  was  awake — I  do  my  utmost  to  con- 
trol it,  but  there  is  something  stronger  than  I — something. 
I  feel  as  though  if  I  once  discovered  what  that  something 
was  I  should  not  be  frightened  any  longer.  Something  defi- 
nite that  you  could  meet  and  say  to  yourself :  'There,  Au- 
drey Vassilievitch,  you're  not  frightened  of  that,  are  you  ? 
What  is  there  to  be  frightened  of  ?  .  .  .  Why  then,  you 
know,  I  don't  believe  I  should  be  frightened  any  more !' " 

I  remember  that  he  then  explained  to  me  that  he  wished 
Nikitin  had  been  sent  instjead  of  Semyonov.  Nikitin  was 
much  more  sympathetic. 

"You  seem  very  fond  of  Nikitin,"  I  said. 

"We  are  friends  ...  we  have  been  friends  for  many 
years.  My  wife  was  very  fond  of  him.  I  am  a  lonely 
man,  Ivan  Andreievitch,  since  the  death  of  my  wife,  and 


74  THE  DARK  FOREST 

to  be  with  any  one  who  knew  her  is  a  great  happiness  .  .  . 
yes,  a  great  happiness." 

"And  Semyonov?"  I  asked. 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  against  Alexei  Petrovitch,"  he 
answered  stiffly. 

When  later  I  joined  the  others  at  the  cottage  higher  up 
the  road  taken  by  the  doctors  of  the  Division,  I  discovered 
Trenchard  in  an  ecstasy  of  happiness.  He  did  not  speak 
to  me  but  his  shining  eyes,  the  eagerness  with  which  standing 
back  from  the  group  he  watched  us  all,  told  me  everything. 
Marie  Ivanovna  had  been  kind  to  him,  and  when  I  found 
her  in  the  centre  of  them,  her  whole  body  alert  with  excite- 
ment, I  forgot  my  anger  at  her  earlier  unkindness  or,  if  I 
remembered  it,  laid  it  to  the  charge  of  my  own  imagination 
or  Trenchard's  sensitiveness. 

Indeed  we  were  all  excited.  How  could  we  fail  to  be? 
There  was  some  big  business  toward,  and  in  it  we  were  to 
have  our  share.  We  were,  perhaps  this  very  day,  to  pene- 
trate into  the  reality  of  the  thing  that  for  nine  months  now 
we  had  been  watching.  All  of  us,  with  our  little  private  his- 
tories like  bundles  on  our  backs,  are  venturing  out  to  try 
our  fortune.  .  .  .  What  are  we  going  to  find  ? 

I  remember  indeed  that  early  on  that  afternoon  I  felt  the 
drama  of  the  whole  affair  so  heavily  that  I  saw  in  every 
soldier  who  passed  me  a  messenger  of  fate.  They  called 
me  to  a  meal.  Eat!  Now!  How  absurd  it  seemed! 
Semyonov  watched  me  cynically : 

"Eat  and  then  sleep,"  he  said,  "or  you'll  be  no  lise  to 
any  one." 

Afterwards  I  went  back  to  the  kitchen  and  slept.  That 
sleep  was  the  end  of  my  melodrama.  I  was  awakened  by 
a  rough  hand  on  my  shoulder  to  find  it  dark  beyond  the 
windows  and  Semyonov  watching  me  impatiently: 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  75 

"Come,  get  up!  It's  time  for  us  to  start,"  and  then 
moved  out.  I  was  conscious  that  I  was  cold  and  irritable. 
I  looked  back  with  surprised  contempt  to  my  earlier  dra- 
matic emotions.  I  was  hungry ;  I  put  on  my  overcoat,  shiv- 
ered, came  out  into  the  evening,  saw  the  line  of  wagons  sil- 
houetted against  the  sky,  listened  to  the  perfect  quiet  on 
every  side  of  me,  yawned  and  was  vexed  to  find  Trenchard 
at  my  side. 

"Why  this  is  actually  dull !"  I  thought  to  myself.  "It  is 
as  though  I  were  going  to  some  dinner  that  I  know  before- 
hand will  be  exceedingly  tiresome — only  then  I  should  get 
some  food." 

I  was  disappointed  at  the  lack  of  drama  in  the  affair.  I 
looked  at  my  watch — it  was  ten  o'clock.  Semyonov  was 
arranging  everything  with  a  masterly  disregard  of  personal 
feelings.  He  swore  fine  Russian  oaths,  abused  the  sanitars, 
always  in  his  cold  rather  satirical  voice,  his  heavy  figure 
moving  up  and  down  the  road  with  a  practical  vivid  alert- 
ness that  stirred  my  envy  and  also  my  annoyance.  I  felt 
utterly  useless.  He  ordered  me  on  to  my  wagon  in  a 
manner  that,  in  my  present  half-sleepy,  half-surly  mood 
seemed  to  me  abominably  abrupt.  Trenchard  climbed  up, 
very  clumsily,  after  me. 

I  leaned  back  on  the  straw,  let  my  arms  fall  and  lay 
there,  flat  on  my  back,  staring  straight  into  the  sky.  .  .  . 
With  that  my  mood  suddenly  changed.  I  was  at  peace  with 
the  whole  world.  To-night  was  again  thick  with  a  heavy 
burden  of  stars  that  seemed  to  weigh  like  the  silver  lid  of 
some  mighty  box  heavily  down,  down  upon  us,  until  trees 
and  hills  and  the  dim  Carpathians  were  bent  flat  beneath  the 
pressure.  I  lying  upon  my  back,  seeing  only  that  sheet  of 
stars,  in  my  nostrils  the  smell  of  the  straw,  rocked  by  the 
slow  dreamy  motion  of  the  wagon,  was  filled  with  an  ex- 


76  THE  DAKK  FOREST 

quisite  ease  and  lethargy.  I  was  going  into  battle,  was  I  ? 
I  was  to  have  to-night  the  supreme  experience  of  my  life  ? 
It  might  be  that  to-night  I  should  die — only  last  week  two 
members  of  the  Red  Cross — a  nurse  and  a  doctor — had 
been  killed.  It  might  be  that  these  stars,  this  straw,  this 
quiet  night  were  round  me  for  the  last  time.  It  did  not 
matter  to  me — nothing  could  touch  me.  My  soul  was  some- 
where far  away,  upon  some  business  of  its  own,  and  how 
happy  was  my  body  without  the  soul,  how  contented,  how 
undisturbed !  I  could  fancy  that  I  should  go,  thus  rocking, 
into  battle  and  there  die  before  my  soul  had  time  to  return 
to  me.  What  would  my  soul  do  then?  Find  some  other 
body,  or  go  wandering,  searching  for  me  ?  A  star,  a  flash 
of  light  like  a  cry  of  happiness  or  of  glad  surprise,  fell 
through  heaven  and  the  other  stars  trembled  at  the  sight. 

My  wagon  stopped  with  a  jerk.  Some  voice  asked :  what 
the  devil  were  we  doing  filling  the  road  with  our  carts  at 
the  exact  moment  that  such-and-such  a  Division  wished  to 
move. 

I  heard  Semyonov's  voice,  very  cold,  official  and  polite. 
Then  again :  "Well,  in  God's  name,  hurry  then !  .  .  .  tak- 
ing up  the  road  I  .  .  .  hurry,  I  tell  you !" 

On  we  jogged  again.  Trenchard's  voice  came  to  me: 
he  had  been,  it  might  be,  talking  for  some  time. 

"And  so  I'm  not  surprised,  Durward,  that  you  thought 
me  a  terrible  fool  to  show  my  feelings  as  I've  done  this  last 
fortnight.  But  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  me — ^to  have 
something  at  last  in  your  hands  that  you've  dreamed  of  all 
your  life  and  never  dared  to  hope  for:  to  have  it  and  feel 
that  at  any  moment  it  may  slip  away  and  leave  you  in  a 
worse  state  than  you  were  before.  I'd  been  wishing,  these 
last  weeks,  that  I'd  never  met  her,  that  I'd  simply  come  to 
the  war  by  myself.    But  now — ^to-day — ^when  she  spoke  to 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  77 

me  as  she  did,  asked  me  to  forgive  her  for  what  happened 
last  night,  my  God,  Durward!  I  to  forgive  her!  .  .  .  But 
I'll  show  her  this  very  night  what  I  can  do — ^this  very  night ! 
They'll  give  me  a  chance,  won't  they  ?  It  would  be  terrible 
if  they  didn't.  Semyonov  won't  give  me  a  chance  if  he  can 
help  it.  What  have  I  done  to  Semyonov  that  he  should  hate 
me  ?    What  have  .  .  ."  ' 

But  I  didn't  answer  Trenchard.  That  part  of  me  that 
had  any  concern  with  him  and  his  affairs  was  far  away. 
But  his  voice  had  stirred  some  more  active  life  in  me.  I 
thought  to  myself  now :  Will  there  be  some  concrete  definite 
moment  in  this  affair  when  I  shall  say  to  myself:  "Ah, 
there  it  is!  There's  the  heart  of  this  whole  business! 
There's  the  enemy!  Slay  him  and  you  have  settled  the 
matter !"  or,  perhaps,  "Ah,  now  I've  seen  the  secret.  Now 
I've  hunted  the  animal  to  his  lair.  This  is  war,  this  thing 
here.  Now  all  my  days  I  remain  quiet.  There  is  nothing 
more  to  fear" — or  would  it  be  perhaps  that  I  should  face 
something  and  be  filled,  then,  with  ungovernable  terror  so 
that  I  should  run  for  my  life,  run,  hide  me  in  the  hills, 
cover  up  my  days  so  that  no  one  shall  ever  find  me 
again.  .  .  .  ? 

I  raised  myself  on  my  elbow  and  looked  at  the  country. 
We  jolted  over  a  little  brook,  brushed  through  a  thicket 
of  trees,  came  on  to  a  path  running  at  the  forest's  foot,  and 
saw  on  our  left  a  little  wooden  house,  a  high  wood  fire  burn- 
ing in  front  of  it.  I  looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  one  o'clock. 
Already  a  very  faint  glow  throbbed  in  the  sky.  Out  of  the 
forest,  at  long  intervals,  came  a  dull  booming  sound  like  the 
shutting  of  a  heavy  iron  door. 

The  wagons  drew  up.    We  had  arrived  at  our  destination. 

"We  shall  be  here,"  I  heard  Semyonov  say,  "some  five 
hours  or  so.    You'd  better  sleep  if  you  can." 


78  THE  DAKK  FOREST 

A  group  of  soldiers  round  the  wood  fire  were  motionless, 
their  faces  glowing,  their  bodies  dark.  Our  wagons,  drawn 
up  together,  resembled  in  the  twilight  strange  beasts;  the 
two  Sisters  lay  down  on  one  wagon,  Semyonov,  Audrey 
Vassilievitch,  Trenchard  and  I  on  another.  My  irritated 
mood  had  returned.  I  had  been  the  last  to  climb  on  to  the 
straw  and  the  others  had  so  settled  themselves  that  I  had 
no  room  to  lie  flat.  Semyonov's  big  body  occupied  half  the 
wagon,  Audrey  Vassilievitch's  boots  touched  my  head  and 
at  intervals  his  whole  body  gave  nervous  jerks.  It  was  also 
quite  bitterly  cold,  which  was  curious  enough  after  the 
warmth  of  the  earlier  nights.  And  always,  at  what  seemed 
to  be  regular  intervals,  there  came,  from  the  forest,  the 
banging  of  the  iron  door. 

I  felt  a  passionate  irritation  against  Audrey  Vassilievitch. 
Why  could  he  not  keep  quiet  ?  What,  after  all,  was  he  doing 
here?  I  could  hear  that  he  was  dreaming.  He  muttered 
some  woman's  name : 

"Sasha  .  .  .  Sasha  .  .  .  Sasha.  ..." 

"Can't  you  keep  still?"  I  whispered  to  him,  but  in  the 
cold  I  myself  was  trembling.  The  dawn  came  at  last  with 
reluctance,  flushing  the  air  with  colour,  then  withdrawing 
into  cold  grey  clouds,  then  stealing  out  once  more  behind 
the  forest  in  scattered  strips  of  pale  green  gold,  then  sud- 
denly sending  up  into  the  heaven  a  flock  of  pink  clouds  like 
a  flight  of  birds,  that  spread  in  extending  lines  to  the  hori- 
zon, covering  at  last  a  sky  now  faintly  blue,  with  rosy  bars. 
The  flame  of  the  soldiers'  fire  grew  faint,  white  mists  rose 
in  the  fields,  the  cannon  in  the  forest  ceased  and  the  birds 
began. 

I  sat  up  on  the  cart,  looked  at  my  sleeping  companions, 
and  thought  how  unpleasant  they  looked.  Semyonov  like  a 
dead  man,  Audrey  Vassilievitch  like  a  happy  pig,  Tren- 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  79 

chard  like  a  child  who  slept  after  a  scolding.  I  felt  intense 
loneliness.  I  wanted  some  one  to  comfort  me,  to  reassure 
me  against  life  which  seemed  to  me  suddenly  now  perilous 
and  remorseless ;  moreover  some  one  seemed  to  be  reviewing 
my  life  for  me  and  displaying  it  to  me,  laying  bare  all  its 
uselessness  and  insignificance. 

"But  I'm  in  no  way  a  fine  fellow,"  I  could  fancy  myself 
crying.  "I'm  sleepy  and  cold  and  hungry.  If  you'll  remove 
Audrey  Vassilievitch's  boots  for  me  I'll  lie  flat  on  this 
wagon  and  you  can  let  loose  every  shrapnel  in  the  world 
over  my  head  and  I'll  never  stir.  I  thought  I  was  interested 
in  your  war,  and  I'm  not.  ...  I  thought  no  discomfort 
mattered  to  me,  but  I  find  that  I  dislike  so  much  being  cold 
and  hungry  that  it  outweighs  all  heroism,  all  sense  of  dan- 
ger ...  let  me  alone !" 

Then  something  occurred.  Looking  down  over  the  side 
of  the  cart  I  saw,  to  my  great  surprise,  Marie  Ivanovna. 

"You!"  I  whispered. 

"Hush!"  she  answered.    "Come  down." 

I  let  myself  down  and  at  once  she  put  her  hand  into 
mine. 

"Walk  with  me  just  a  little  way,"  she  whispered,  "to 
those  trees  and  back."  I  had  noticed  at  once  that  her  voice 
trembled;  now  I  perceived  that  her  whole  body  was  shak- 
ing; her  hand  gave  little  startled  quivers  under  mine. 

"You're  cold,"  I  said. 

"No,  I'm  not  cold,"  she  answered  still  in  a  whisper,  al- 
though we  were  now  some  way  from  the  wagons.  "I'm 
frightened,  Mr.  Durward,  that's  what's  the  matter — desper- 
ately frightened." 

"Nonsense,"  I  answered  her.  "You!  Frightened! 
Never!" 

"But  I  am.    I've  been  terribly  fr-frightened  all  night; 


80  THE  DAKK  FOREST 

and  that  Sister  Anna  Petrovna,  he  (she  sometimes  confused 
her  pronouns)  sleeps  like  a  log.  How  can  he  ?  I've  never 
slept,  not  for  a  moment,  and  I've  been  so  cold  and  every 
time  the  cannon  sounded  I  wanted  to  run  away.  .  .  .  Oh, 
Mr.  Durward,  I'm  so  ahamed!" 

Then,  suddenly,  desperately  clutching  my  hand : 

**Mr.  Durward,  you'll  never  tell  any  one,  any  one  never. 
.  .  .  Promise!" 

"Never  a  soul,"  I  answered.  "It's  only  because  you're 
cold  and  hungry  and  sleepy  that  you  think  you're  fright- 
ened. You're  not  frightened  really.  But  wouldn't  you  like 
me  to  wake  Trenchard  and  get  him  to  come  to  you.  .  .  . 
He'd  be  so  happy  .  .  .  ?" 

She  started  fiercely  from  me.  "ITever!  iN'ever!  Why, 
what  can  you  think !  You  must  never  tell,  most  of  all  you 
must  never  tell  him.  .  .  .  He  must  never  know — noth- 
ing " 


The  cannon  began  again.  She  caught  my  arm  and  stood 
with  her  body  trembling,  pressed  against  mine.  I  could 
feel  her  draw  a  deep  breath.  As  I  looked  at  her,  her  face 
white  in  the  dawn,  her  large  eyes  staring  like  a  child's,  her 
body  so  young  and  slender,  she  seemed  another  creature, 
utterly,  absolutely  apart  from  the  woman  of  this  last  fort- 
night. 

"Look  here !"  I  said  to  her  sternly.  "You  mustn't  go  on 
like  this.  You've  got  work  to  do  to-day.  You've  simply  got 
to  hold  yourself  in,  to  tell  yourself  that  nothing  can  touch 
you.  Why  to-night  you'll  laugh  at  me  if  I  remind  you  of 
this.    You'll  .  .  ." 

But  there  was  better  tonic  than  my  words.  Semyonov's 
voice  came  to  us — "Hullo,  you  there!  It's  five  o'clock — 
we're  moving." 


THE  INTISIBLE  BATTLE  81 

She  drew  herself  sharply  away  from  me.  She  raised  her 
head,  smiled  at  me,  then  said : 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Durward.  It's  all  well  now.  There's 
Dr.  Semyonov — let  us  go  back." 

She  greeted  him  with  a  voice  that  had  in  it  not  the  slight- 
est tremor. 

There  comes  now  a  difficult  matter.  During  the  later 
months  when  I  was  to  reflect  on  the  whole  affair  I  saw  quite 
clearly  that  that  hour  between  our  leaving  the  wooden  house 
and  arriving  in  the  trenches  bridged  quite  clearly  for  me 
the  division  in  this  business  between  imagination  and  real- 
ity: that  is,  I  was  never  after  this  to  speak  of  war  as  I 
would  have  spoken  of  it  an  hour  before.  I  was  never  again 
to  regard  the  paraphernalia  of  it  with  the  curiosity  of  a 
stranger — I  had  become  part  of  it.  This  hour  then  may 
be  regarded  as  in  some  ways  the  most  important  of  all  my 
experiences.  It  is  certainly  the  occasion  to  which  if  I  were 
using  my  invention  I  should  make  the  most.  Here  then  is 
my  difficulty. 

I  have  nothing  to  say  about  it.  There's  nothing  at  all 
to  be  made  of  it.  .  .  . 

I  may  say  at  once  that  there  was  no  atom  of  drama  in  it. 
At  one  moment  I  was  standing  with  Marie  Ivanovna  under 
the  sunrise,  at  another  I  was  standing  behind  a  trench  in 
the  heart  of  the  forest  with  a  battery  to  my  left  and  a 
battery  to  my  right,  a  cuckoo  somewhere  not  very  far  away, 
and  a  dead  man  with  his  feet  sticking  out  from  under  the 
cloth  that  covered  him  peacefully  beneath  a  tree  at  my  side. 
There  had,  of  course,  been  that  drive  in  the  wagons,  bump- 
ing over  the  uneven  road  whilst  the  sun  rose  gallantly  in  the 
heavens  and  the  clanging  of  the  iron  door  grew,  with  every 
roll  of  our  wheels,  louder  and  louder.  But  it  was  rather  as 
though  I  had  been  lifted  in  a  sheet  from  one  life — a  life 


82  THE  DARK  FOREST 

of  speculation,  of  viewing  war  from  a  superior  and  safe 
distance,  of  viewing  indeed  all  catastrophe  and  reality  from 
that  same  distance — into  the  other.  I  had  been  caught  up, 
had  hung  for  a  moment  in  mid-air,  had  been  "planted"  in 
this  new  experience.  For  us  all  there  must  have  been  at 
this  moment  something  of  this  passing  from  an  old  life  into 
a  new  one,  and  yet  I  dare  swear  that  not  for  any  one  of  us 
was  there  any  drama,  any  thrill,  any  excitement.  We  stood, 
a  rather  lonely  little  group,  in  the  forest  clearing  whilst  the 
soldiers  in  the  trench  flung  us  a  careless  glance,  then  turned 
back  to  their  business  of  the  day  with  an  indifference  that 
showed  how  ordinary  and  drab  a  thing  custom  had  made  it. 

Yes,  we  made  a  desolate  little  group.  Semyonov  had 
gone  to  a  house  on  the  farther  side  of  the  road  up  which 
we  had  come,  a  house  that  flew  the  Red  Cross  flag.  We  had 
only  the  right  to  care  for  the  wounded  of  certain  Divisions 
and  our  presence  had  to  be  reported.  We  were  left  then, 
Marie  Ivanovna,  Anna  Petrovna,  Audrey  Vassilievitch, 
Trenchard  and  I,  all  rather  close  together,  imcomfortable, 
desolate  and  shy,  as  boys  feel  on  their  first  day  at  school. 
The  battery  on  our  left  was  very  near  to  us  and  we  could 
see  the  sharp  flash  of  its  flame  behind  the  trees.  The  noise 
that  it  made  was  terrific,  a  sharp,  angry,  clumsy  noise,  as 
though  some  huge  giant  clad  in  mail  armour  was  flinging 
his  body,  in  a  violent  rage,  against  an  iron  door  that  echoed 
through  an  empty  house — ^my  same  iron  door  that  I  had 
heard  all  night.  The  rage  of  the  giant  spread  beyond  his 
immediate  little  circle  of  trees  and  one  wondered  at  the  men 
in  the  trenches  because  they  were  indifferent  to  his  temper. 

The  noise  of  the  more  distant  batteries  was  still,  as  it  had 
been  before,  like  the  clanging  of  many  iron  doors  very  mild 
and  gentle  against  the  clamour  of  our  own  enraged  fury. 
The  Austrian  reply  seemed  like  the  sleepy  echo  of  this  con- 


THE  mVISIBLE  BATTLE  83 

fusion,  so  sleepy  and  pleasant  that  one  felt  almost  friendly 
to  the  enemy. 

Our  own  battery  was  inconsistent  in  his  raging.  Had 
he  only  chosen  to  fling  himself  at  his  door  every  three  min- 
utes, say,  or  even  every  minute,  we  could  have  prepared 
ourselves,  but  he  was  moved  by  nothing,  apparently,  but 
his  own  irrational  impulse.  There  would  be  a  pause  of  two 
minutes,  then  three  furious  explosions,  then  a  pause  of  five 
minutes,  then  another  explosion.  ...  I  mastered  quickly 
my  impulse  to  leap  into  the  air  at  every  report,  by  a  kind  of 
prolonged  extension  in  my  mind  of  one  report  into  another. 
Little  Audrey  Vassilievitch  was  not  so  successful.  At  each 
explosion  his  body  jerked  as  though  it  had  been  worked 
by  wires ;  then  he  glanced  round  to  see  whether  any  one  had 
noticed  his  agitation,  then  drew  himself  up,  brushed  off 
imaginary  dust  from  his  uniform,  coughed  and  frowned. 
Trenchard  stood  close  to  Marie  Ivanovna  and  looked  at  her 
anxiously  once  or  twice  as  though  he  would  like  to  speak 
to  her,  but  she,  holding  herself  very  stiffly,  watched  with 
sternness  the  whole  world  as  though  she  personally  had  ar- 
ranged the  spectacle  and  was  responsible  for  its  success. 

Soon  Semyonov  came  back  and  said  that  he  must  go  on 
to  some  further  trenches  to  discover  the  best  position  for 
us.  To  my  intense  surprise  Audrey  Vassilievitch  asked 
whether  he  might  accompany  him.  I  fancy  that  he  felt  that 
he  would  venture  anything  to  escape  our  adjacency  to  the 
battery. 

So  they  departed,  leaving  us  more  forlorn  than  befor'* 
We  sat  down  on  the  stretchers :  Anna  Petrovna,  fat,  heavy, 
phlegmatic,  silent;  Marie  Ivanovna  silent  too  but  with  a 
look  now  of  expectation  in  her  eyes  as  though  she  knew  that 
something  was  coming  for  her  very  shortly ;  Trenchard  near 
her,  trying  to  be  cheerful,  but  conscious  of  the  dead  soldier 


84  THE  DARK  FOREST 

under  the  tree  from  whom  he  seemed  unable  to  remove  his 
eyes.  There  was,  in  the  open  space  near  us,  a  Tcipiaiilnik, 
that  is,  a  large  boiler  on  wheels  in  which  tea  is  made.  To 
this  the  soldiers  were  crowding  with  their  tin  cans;  the 
cuckoo,  far  away  now,  continued  his  cry.  .  .  . 

At  long  intervals,  out  of  the  forest,  a  wounded  soldier 
would  appear.  He  seemed  to  be  always  the  same  figure, 
sometimes  wounded  in  the  head,  sometimes  in  the  leg,  some- 
times in  the  stomach,  sometimes  in  the  hand — but  always 
the  same,  with  a  look  in  his  eyes  of  mild  protest  because  this 
had  happened  to  him,  also  a  look  of  dumb  confidence  that 
some  one  somewhere  would  make  things  right  for  him.  He 
came  either  to  us  or  to  the  Red  Cross  building  across  the 
road,  according  to  his  company.  One  soldier  with  a  torn 
thumb  cried  bitterly,  looking  at  his  thumb  and  shaking 
his  head  at  it,  but  he  alone  showed  any  emotion.  The  others 
suffered  the  sting  of  the  iodine  without  a  word,  walking  off 
when  they  were  bandaged,  or  carried  by  our  sanitars  on 
the  stretchers,  still  with  that  look  of  wonder  and  trust  in 
their  eyes. 

And  how  glad  we  were  when  there  was  any  work  to  do ! 
The  sun  rose  high  in  the  sky,  the  morning  advanced,  Semyo- 
nov  and  Audrey  Vassilievitch  did  not  return.  For  the 
greater  part  of  the  time  we  did  not  speak,  nor  move.  I 
was  conscious  of  an  increasing  rage  against  the  battery. 
I  felt  that  if  it  was  to  cease  I  might  observe,  be  interested, 
feel  excitement — as  it  was,  it  kept  everything  from  me. 
It  kept  everything  from  me  because  it  insistently  demanded 
my  attention,  like  a  vulgar  garrulous  neighbour  who  per- 
sists in  his  tiresome  story.  Its  perpetual  hammering  had 
soon  its  physical  effect.  A  sick  headache  crept  upon  me, 
seized  me,  held  me.  I  might  look  at  the  soldiers,  sleeping 
now  like  dead  men  in  the  trench,  I  might  look  at  the  Red 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  85 

Cross  flag  lazily  flapping  in  the  breeze  across  the  road,  I  ' 
might  look  at  the  corpse  with  the  soiled  marble  feet  under 
the  tree,  I  might  look  at  Trenchard  and  Marie  Ivanovna  si- 
lent and  unhappy  on  the  stretchers,  on  Anna  Petrovna  com- 
fortably slumbering  with  an  open  mouth,  I  might  listen  to 
the  distant  batteries,  to  the  sudden  quick  impatient  chatter 
of  the  machine  guns,  to  the  rattling  give-and-take  of  the 
musketry  somewhere  far  away  where  the  river  was,  I  might 
watch  the  cool  green  hollows  of  the  forest  glades,  the  dark 
sleepy  shadows,  the  bright  patches  of  burning  sky  between 
the  branches,  I  might  say  to  myself  that  all  these  things 
together  made  the  impression  of  my  first  battle  .  .  .  and 
then  would  know,  in  my  heart,  that  there  was  no  impres- 
sion at  all,  no  thrill,  no  drama,  no  personality — only  a  sick 
throb  in  my  head  and  a  cold  hand  upon  my  chest  and  a  de- 
sire to  fling  myself  into  any  horror,  any  danger,  if  I  could 
but  escape  this  indigestible  monotony.  .  .  . 

Once  Trenchard,  treading  very  softly  as  though  every 
one  around  him  were  asleep,  came  across  and  talked  to  me. 

"You  know,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "this  isn't  at  all  what 
I  expected." 

"You  needn't  whisper,"  I  answered  irritably,  "that  bat- 
tery's making  such  a  noise  that  I  can't  hear  anything  you 
say." 

"Yes,  isn't  it !"  he  said  with  a  little  sigh.  "It's  very  un- 
pleasant indeed.  Do  you  think  Semyonov's  forgotten  us? 
We've  been  here  a  good  many  hours  and  we  aren't  doing 
very  much." 

"No,"  I  answered.  "We're  doing  nothing  except  get  sick 
headaches." 

There  was  a  pause,  then  he  said : 

"Where  is  everything?" 

"Everything  ?— What  2" 


86  THE  DARK  FOREST 

*^ell,  the  battle,  for  instance !" 

"Oh,  that's  down  the  hill,  I  suppose.  We*re  trying  to 
cross  the  river  and  they're  trying  to  prevent  us." 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "But  that  isn't  exactly  what  I 
mean.  .  .  .  It's  hard  to  explain,  but  even  if  we  were  to  see 
our  Soldiers  trying  to  cross  the  river  and  the  Austrians  try- 
ing to  prevent  them  that  wouldn't  be — well,  wouldn't  be  ex- 
actly the  real  thing,  would  it  ?  It  would  only  be  a  kind  of 
side-show,  rather  unimportant  like  that  dead  man  there !" 

But  my  headache  prevented  my  interest  in  his  specula- 
tions.   I  said  nothing. 

He  added  as  though  to  himself: 

"Perhaps  each  individual  soldier  sees  the  real  thing  for 
himself  but  can't  express  what  he  sees.  .  .  ." 

As  I  still  made  no  answer,  with  another  little  sigh  he  got 
up  and  walked  back,  on  tip-toe,  to  the  side  of  Marie  Ivan- 
ovna. 

Then  suddenly,  in  the  early  hours  of  the  afternoon,  to  our 
intense  relief,  Semyonov  and  Audrey  Vassilievitch  ap- 
peared. Semyonov  was,  as  ever,  short,  practical,  and  une- 
motional. 

"Been  a  long  time,  I'm  afraid.  We  found  it  difficult  to 
see  exactly  where  would  be  the  best  place.  And,  after  all, 
we've  got  to  separate.  .  .  .  One  Sister's  wanted  at  the  Red 
Cross  over  there.  They've  asked  for  our  help.  The  other 
will  come  with  me  on  to  the  Position  until  this  evening. 
You  three  gentlemen,  if  you'll  be  so  good,  will  wait  here 
until  a  wagon  comes.  Then  it  will  take  you  down  to  the 
trenches  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  Then,  if  you  don't  mind, 
I  would  like  you  to  wait  until  dusk  when  we  shall  go  out  to 
fetch  the  wounded.  ...  Is  that  clear?" 

We  answered  yes. 

"Now  which  Sister  will  come  with  me  ?    Marie  Ivanovna, 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  87 

I  think  it  would  interest  you.  "No  danger,  except  a  stray 
shrapnel  or  two.    Will  you  come  ?" 

There  leapt  upon  us  then,  with  an  agitation  that  seemed 
to  silence  the  very  battery  itself,  Trenchard's  voice : 

"No.  .  .  .  No  .  .  .  Marie.  No,  it's  dangerous.  Semy- 
onov  says  so.    Your  first  day  .  .  ." 

He  spoke  in  English,  his  voice  trembling.  I  turned  to  see 
his  face  white,  his  eyes  wide  open  and  at  the  same  time 
blind;  he  passionately  addressed  himself  to  Marie  Ivan- 
ovna  and  to  her  alone. 

But  she  turned  impatiently. 

"Why,  of  course,  Doctor.    I'm  ready  at  once." 

Trenchard  put  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"You  are  not  to  go — ^Marie,  do  you  hear?  I  have  a 
right  ...  I  tell  you,  you  are  not  to  go !" 

"Don't  be  so  stupid,  John,"  she  shook  off  his  arm. 
"Please,  Doctor,  I'm  ready." 

Semyonov  turned  to  Trenchard  with  a  smile:  "Mr. 
(they  all  called  him  Mr.  now),  it  will  be  quite  well  ...  I 
will  look  after  her." 

"You  .  .  .  you"  (Trenchard  could  not  control  his  voice), 
"you  can't  prevent  shrapnel — bullets.  You  don't  care, 
you  .  .  ." 

Semyonov's  voice  was  sharp :  "I  think  it  better  that  Sis- 
tor  Marie  Ivanovna  should  come  with  me.  You  understand, 
the  rest  of  you.  .  .  .  We  shall  meet  at  dusk." 

Trenchard  only  said  "Marie  .  .  ."  then  turned  away 
from  us.  Anna  Petrovna,  who  had  said  nothing  during  this 
scene  and  had,  indeed,  seemed  to  be  oblivious  of  it,  plunged 
with  her  heavy  clumsy  walk  across  the  road  to  the  Red 
Cross  house.  The  Doctor  and  Marie  Ivanovna  disappeared 
behind  the  trench.  I  was,  as  was  always  my  case  with 
Trenchard,  both  sympathetic  and  irritated.    It  was  difficult 


$8  THE  DARK  FOBEST 

for  him,  of  course,  but  what  did  he  expect  the  girl  to  do  ? 
Could  he  have  supposed  for  a  single  moment  that  she 
would  remain?  Could  it  be  possible  that  he  knew  her  so 
little  as  that  ?  And  why  make  a  scene  now  before  Semyonov 
when  he  obviously  could  do  nothing?  I  knew,  moreover, 
with  a  certainty  that  was  almost  ironic  in  its  clarity,  that 
Marie  Ivanovna  did  not  love,  did  not,  perhaps,  even  care 
for  him.  By  what  moment  in  Petrograd,  a  moment  flaming 
with  their  high  purposes  and  the  purple  shadows  of  a  Rus- 
sian "white  night,"  had  she  been  entranced  into  some  glori- 
ous vision  of  him  ?  On  the  very  day  that  followed,  she  had 
known,  I  was  convinced,  her  mistake.  At  the  station  she 
had  known  it,  and  instead  of  the  fine  Sir  Galahad  "without 
reproach"  of  the  previous  night  she  saw  some  figure  that, 
had  she  been  English  bom,  would  have  appeared  to  her  as 
Alice's  White  Knight  perchance,  or  at  best  the  warm- 
hearted Uncle  Toby,  or  that  most  Christian  of  English  he- 
roes— Parson  Adams.  I  could  imagine  that  life  had  been 
so  impulsive,  so  straightforward,  so  simple  a  thing  to  her 
that  this  sudden  implication  in  an  affair  complicated  and 
even  dishonest  caused  her  bitter  disquiet.  Looking  back 
now  I  could  trace  again  and  again  the  sudden  flashes, 
through  her  happiness,  of  this  distress. 

He  perhaps  should  have  perceived  it,  but  I  could  under- 
stand that  he  could  not  believe  that  his  treasure  had  at  last 
after  all  these  years  been  given  to  him  for  so  brief  a  mo- 
ment. He  could  not,  he  would  not,  believe  it.  Well,  I 
knew  that  his  eyes  must  very  soon  be  opened  to  the  truth. . . . 

As  I  turned  to  see  him  sitting  on  the  stretcher  with  his 
back  to  me,  his  head  hanging  a  little  as  though  it  were  too 
heavy  for  his  neck,  his  back  bent,  his  long  arms  fallen  loose 
at  his  sides,  I  thought  that  Alice's  White  Knight  he,  in  sol- 
emn truth,  presented. 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  89 

He  had  a  talent  for  doing  things  to  his  uniform.  His 
cap,  instead  of  being  raised  in  front,  was  flat,  his  jacket 
bulged  out  above  his  belt,  and  the  straps  on  his  boot  had 
broken  from  their  holdings.  He  filled  the  pockets  of  his 
trousers,  in  moments  of  absent-minded  absorption,  with  ar- 
ticles that  he  fancied  that  he  would  need — sometimes  food, 
black  bread  and  sausage,  sometimes  a  large  pocket-knife,  a 
folding  drinking  glass,  a  ball  of  string,  a  notebook.  These 
things  protruded,  or  gave  his  clothes  a  strange  bulky  look, 
fat  in  some  places,  thin  in  others.  As  I  saw  him  his  shoul- 
der-blades seemed  to  pierce  his  coat:  I  could  fancy  with 
what  agitation  his  hands  were  clenched. 

We  sat  down,  the  three  of  us  together,  and  again  the  bat- 
tery leapt  upon  us.  Now  the  sun  was  hot  above  the  trees 
and  the  effect  of  the  noise  behind  us  was  that  we  ourselves, 
every  two  or  three  minutes,  were  caught  up,  flung  to  the 
ground,  recovered,  breathless,  exhausted,  only  to  be  hurled 
again! 

How  miserable  we  were,  how  lost,  how  desolate,  Tren- 
chard  hearing  in  every  sound  the  death  of  his  lady,  Audrey 
Vassilievitch  dreaming,  I  fancy,  that  he  had  been  caught 
in  some  cage  out  of  which  he  would  never  again  escape.  I, 
sick,  almost  blind  with  headache,  and  yet  exasperated,  irri- 
tated by  the  emptiness  of  it  all.  If  only  we  might  run  down 
that  hill !    There  surely  we  should  find  .  .  . 

At  the  very  moment  when  the  battery  had  finished  as  it 
seemed  to  me  its  work  of  smashing  my  head  into  pulp  the 
wagon  arrived. 

"Now,"  I  thought  to  myself  as  I  climbed  on  to  the  straw, 
"I  shall  begin  to  be  excited!"  We,  all  three  of  us,  kneel- 
ing on  the  cart,  peered  forward  into  the  dim  blue  afternoon. 
We  were  very  silent — only  once  Trenchard  said  to  me,  "Per- 


90  THE  DAKK  FOREST 

haps  we  shall  find  her  down  here :  where  we're  going.  What 
do  you  think,  Durward  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  not!"  I  answered.  "But  still  she'll  be  all 
right.    Semyonov  will  look  after  her !" 

"Oh!  Semyonov!"  he  answered. 

How  joyful  we  were  to  leave  our  battery  behind  us.  As 
the  trees  closed  around  it  we  could  fancy  its  baffled  rage. 
Other  batteries  now  seemed  to  draw  nearer  to  us  and  the 
whole  forest  was  filled  with  childish  quarrelling  giants; 
but  as  we  began  to  bump  down  the  hill  out  of  the  forest 
stranger  sounds  attacked  us.  On  either  side  of  us  were 
cornfields  and  out  of  the  heart  of  those  from  under  our  very 
feet  as  it  seemed  there  were  explosions  of  a  strange  sting- 
ing metallic  kind — ^not  angry  and  human  as  the  battery  had 
been,  but  rather  like  some  huge  bottle  cracking  in  the  sun. 
These  huge  bottles — one  could  fancy  them  green  and  shin- 
ing somewhere  in  the  com — cracked  one  after  another ;  posi- 
tively the  sound  intensified  the  heat  of  the  sun  upon  one's 
head.  There  were  too  now,  for  the  first  time  in  our  experi- 
ence, shrapnel.  They  were  not  over  us,  but  ran  somewhere 
on  our  right  across  the  valley.  Their  sound  was  "fireworks" 
and  nothing  more — so  that  alarm  at  their  gentle  holiday 
temper  was  impossible.  Brock's  Fireworks  on  a  Thursday 
evening  at  the  Crystal  Palace,  oneself  a  small  boy  sitting 
with  both  hands  between  one's  knees,  one's  mouth  open,  a 
damp  box  of  chocolates  on  one's  lap,  the  murmured 
"Ah  .  .  ."  of  the  happy  crowd  as  the  little  gentle  "Pop !" 
showed  green  and  red  against  the  blue  night  sky.  Ah !  there 
was  the  little  "Pop!"  and  after  it  a  tiny  curling  cloud  of 
smoke  in  the  air,  the  whole  affair  so  gentle,  so  kind  even. 
There !  sighing  overhead  they  go !  Five,  six  little  curls  of 
smoke,  and  then  beneath  our  very  horses'  feet  again  a  huge 
green  bottle  cracking  in  the  sun! 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  91 

And  with  all  this  noise  not  a  living  soul  to  be  seen !  We 
had  before  us  as  we  slowly  bumped  down  the  hill  a  fair 
view.  The  river  was  hidden  from  us,  but  there  was  a  little 
hamlet  guarded  happily  by  a  green  wood ;  there  was  a  line 
of  fair  hills,  fields  of  com,  and  the  long  dusty  white  road. 
Not  a  soul  to  be  seen,  only  our  bumping  cart  and,  now  and 
then,  against  the  burning  sky  those  little  curling  circles  of 
smoke.    The  world  slumbered.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  from  the  ditch  at  the  side  of  the  road  a  soldier 
appeared,  spoke  to  our  driver  and  disappeared  again. 

"What  did  he  say?"  I  asked. 

"He  says,  your  Honour,  that  we  must  hasten.  We  may 
be  hit." 

"Hit  here-Hon  this  road  ?" 

"Tah  totchno." 

"Well,  hurry  then." 

I  caught  a  little  frightened  sigh  behind  me  from  Audrey 
Vassilievitch,  whom  the  events  of  the  day  had  frozen  into 
horror-stricken  silence.  We  hurried,  bumping  along ;  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill  there  was  a  farmhouse.  From  behind 
it  an  oflBcer  appeared. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?  You're  under  fire  .  .  . 
Red  Cross?  Ah  yes,  we  had  a  message  about  you.  Dr. 
Semyonov?  .  .  .  Yes.  Please  come  this  way.  Hurry, 
please !" 

We  were  led  across  the  farmyard  and  almost  tumbled  into 
a  trench  at  the  farther  end  of  it. 

It  wasn't  until  I  felt  some  one  touch  my  shoulder  that  I 
realised  my  position.  We  were  sitting,  the  three  of  us,  in 
a  slanting  fashion  with  our  backs  to  the  earthworks  of  the 
trench.  To  our  right,  under  an  improvised  round  roof,  a 
little  dried-up  man  like  a  bee,  with  his  tunic  open  at  the 


92  THE  DARK  FOREST 

neck  and  a  beard  of  some  days  on  his  chin,  was  calling  down 
a  telephone. 

Next  to  me  on  the  left  a  smart  young  oflBcer,  of  a  perfect 
neatness  and  even  dandiness,  was  eating  his  supper,  which 
his  servant,  crouching  in  front  of  him,  ladled  with  a  spoon 
out  of  a  tin  can.  Beyond  him  again  the  soldiers  in  a  long 
line  under  the  farm  wall  were  sewing  their  clothes,  eating, 
talking  in  whispers,  and  one  of  them  reading  a  newspaper 
aloud  to  himself. 

A  bam  opposite  us  in  ruin^  showed  between  its  bare  posts 
the  green  fields  beyond.  Now  and  then  a  soldier  would 
move  across  the  yard  to  the  door  of  the  farm,  and  he  seemed 
to  slide  with  something  between  walking  and  running,  his 
shoulders  bent,  his  head  down.  The  sun,  low  now,  showed 
just  above  the  end  of  the  farm  roof  and  the  lines  of  light 
were  orange  between  the  shadows  of  the  bam.  All  the  bat- 
teries seemed  now  very  far  away;  the  only  sound  in  the 
world  was  the  occasional  sigh  of  the  shrapnel.  The  farm- 
yard was  bathed  in  the  peace  of  the  summer  evening. 

The  Colonel,  when  he  had  finished  his  conversation  with 
some  humorous  sally  that  gave  him  great  pleasure,  greeted 
us. 

"Very  glad  to  see  you,  gentlemen.  .  .  .  Two  English- 
men! Well,  that's  the  Alliance  in  very  truth  .  .  .  yes. 
.  .  .  How's  London,  gentlemen  ?  Yes,  goluhchih,  that  small 
tin — ^the  grey  one.  No,  durah,  the  small  one.  Dr.  Semy- 
onov  sent  a  message.  Pray  make  yourselves  comfortable, 
but  don't  raise  your  heads.  They  may  turn  their  minds  in 
this  direction  at  any  moment  again.  We've  had  them  once 
already  this  afternoon.  Eh,  Piotr  Ivanovitch  (this  to  the 
smart  young  officer),  that  would  have  made  your  Ekaterina 
Petrovna  jump  in  her  sleep — ha,  ha,  ha — oh,  yes,  but  I  can 
see  her  jumping.  .  .  .  Hullo,   telephone — Give   it  here! 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  98 

That  you,  Ivan  Leontievitch  ?  !N"o  .  .  .  very  well  for  the 
moment.  .  .  .  Two  Englishmen  here  sitting  in  my  trench 
— ^truth  itself !  Well,  what  about  the  Second  'Eota'  ?  Are 
they  coming  down  ?  .  .  .  Yeh  Bogu^  I  don't  know !  What 
do  you  say  ?  .  .  ." 

The  young  officer,  in  a  very  gentle  and  melodious  voice, 
offered  Trenchard,  who  was  sitting  next  to  him,  some  supper. 

"One  of  these  cutlets  ?" 

Trenchard,  blushing  and  stammering,  refused. 

"A  cigarette,  then  ?" 

Trenchard  again  refused  and  Piotr  Ivanovitch,  having 
done  his  duty,  relapsed  into  his  muffled  elegance.  We  sat 
very  quietly  there;  Trenchard  staring  with  distressed  eyes 
in  front  of  him.  Audrey  Vassilievitch,  very  uncomfortable, 
his  fat  body  sliding  forward  on  the  slant,  pulling  itself  up, 
then  sliding  again — always  he  maintained  his  air  of  impor- 
tance, giving  his  cough,  twisting  the  ends  of  his  moustache, 
staring,  fiercely,  at  some  one  suddenly  that  he  might  dis- 
concert him,  patting,  with  his  plump  little  hands,  his  clothes. 

The  shadows  lengthened  and  a  great  green  oak  that  hung 
over  the  bam  seemed,  as  the  evening  advanced,  to  grow 
larger  and  larger  and  to  absorb  into  its  heart  all  the  flaming 
colours  of  the  day,  to  press  them  into  its  dark  shadow  and 
to  hide  them,  safe  and  contented,  until  another  morning. 

I  sat  there  and  gradually,  caught,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  into 
a  world  of  whispers  and  half-lights,  I  slipped  forward  a 
little  down  into  the  dark  walls  of  the  trench  and  half-slum- 
bered, half  clung  still  to  the  buzzing  voice  of  the  Colonel, 
the  languid  replies  of  the  young  officer.  I  felt  then  that 
8ome  one  was  whispering  to  me  that  my  real  adventure  was 
about  to  begin.  I  could  see  quite  plainly,  like  a  road  up 
which  I  had  gone,  the -events  of  the  day  behind  me.  I  saw 
the  ride  under  the  stars,  the  oold  red  dawn.     Marie  Ivan- 


94  THF  DARK  FOREST 

ovna  standing  beneath  my  cart,  the  sudden  battery  and  the 
desolate  hours  of  waiting,  the  wounded  men  stumbling  out 
of  the  forest,  the  ride  down  the  hill  and  the  green  bottles 
bursting  in  the  sun,  the  sudden  silences  and  the  sudden 
sounds,  my  own  weariness  and  discomfort  and  loneliness  and 
now  Something — ^was  it  the  dark  green  oak  that  bent  down 
and  hid  the  world  for  me? — whispered,  "You^re  drawing 
near — ^you're  close — ^you're  almost  there.  ...  In  a  moment 
you  will  see  .  .  .  you  will  see  .  .  .  you  will  see.  .  .  ." 

Somewhere  the  soldiers  were  singing,  and  then  all  sounds 
ceased.  We  were  standing,  many  of  us,  in  the  dark,  the 
great  oak  and  many  other  giant  trees  were  about  us  and  the 
utter  silence  was  like  a  sudden  plunge  into  deep  water  on  a 
hot  day.  We  were  waiting,  ready  for  the  Creature,  breath- 
less with  suspense. 

"Now!"  some  one  cried,  and  instantly  there  was  such 
a  roar  that  I  seemed  to  be  lifted  by  it  far  into  the  sky,  held, 
rocked,  then  dropped  gently.  I  woke  to  find  myself  stand- 
ing up  in  the  trench,  my  hands  to  my  ears.  I  was  aware 
first  that  the  sky  had  changed  from  blue  into  a  muddy  grey, 
then  that  dust  and  an  ugly  smell  were  in  my  eyes,  my 
mouth,  my  nose.  I  remembered  that  I  repeated  stupidly, 
again  and  again:  "What?  what?  what?"  Then  the  grey 
sky  slowly  fell  away  as  though  it  were  pushed  by  some  hand 
and  I  saw  the  faint  evening  blue,  with  (so  strange  and  un- 
real they  seemed)  silver-pointed  stars.  I  caught  my  breath 
and  realised  that  now  the  whole  right  comer  of  the  bam 
was  gone.  The  field  stretched,  a  dark  shadow,  to  the  edge 
of  the  yard.  In  the  ground  where  the  stakes  of  the  bam 
had  been  there  was  a  deep  pit ;  scattered  helter-skelter  were 
bricks,  pieces  of  wood,  and  over  it  all  a  cloud  of  thin  fine 
dust  that  hovered  and  swung  a  little  like  grey  silk.  The  line 
of  soldiers  was  crouched  back  into  the  trench  as  though  it 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  95 

had  been  driven  by  some  force.  From,  as  it  appeared,  a 
great  distance,  I  heard  the  Colonel's  voice:  "8lava  Bogu, 
another  step  to  the  right  and  we'd  not  have  had  time  to  say 
%ood-bye.'  .  .  .  Get  in  there,  you  .  .  .  with  your  head 
out  like  that,  do  you  want  another  ?"  I  was  conscious  then 
of  Audrey  Vassilievitch  sitting  huddled  on  the  ground  of 
the  trench,  his  head  tucked  into  his  chest. 

"You're  not  hurt,  are  you  ?"  I  said,  bending  down  to  him. 

He  got  up  and  to  my  surprise  seemed  quite  composed- 
He  was  rubbing  his  eyes  as  though  he  had  waked  from  sleep. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  answered  in  his  shrill  little  voice.  "No. 
.  .  .  What  a  noise !    Did  you  hear  it,  Ivan  Andreievitch  ?" 

Did  I  hear  it  ?    A  ridiculous  question ! 

"But  I  assure  you  I  was  not  alarmed,"  he  said  eagerly, 
turning  round  to  the  young  officer,  who  was  rather  red  in 
the  face  but  otherwise  unruffled.  "The  first  time  that  one 
has  been  so  close  to  me.    What  a  noise !" 

Trenchard  searched  in  his  pockets  for  something. 

"What  is  it  ?"  I  asked. 

"My  handkerchief !"  he  answered.  "So  dusty  after  that. 
It*s  in  my  eyes !" 

He  tumbled  on  to  the  ground  a  large  clasp  pocket-knife, 
a  hunk  of  black  bread,  a  cigarette-case  and  some  old  letters. 
"I  had  one,"  he  muttered  anxiously.  "Somewhere,  I 
know.  .  .  ." 

I  heard  the  Colonel's  voice  again.  "No  one  touched! 
There's  some  more  of  their  precious  ammunition  wasted. 
.  .  .  What  about  your  Ekaterina,  Piotr  Ivanovitch — Ho, 
ho,  hoi  .  .  .  Here,  golubchik,  the  telephone  1  .  .  .  Hullo  I 
Hullo  I" 

For  myself  I  had  the  irritation  that  one  might  feel  had 
a  boy  thrown  a  stone  over  the  wall,  broken  a  window  and 
run  away.  Moreover,  I  felt  that  again  I  had  missed — IT. 


96  THE  DARK  FOREST 

Always  round  the  comer,  always  just  out  of  sight,  always 
mocking  one's  clumsy  pursuit.  And  still,  even  now,  I  felt 
no  excitement,  no  curiosity.  My  feet  had  not  yet  touched 
the  enchanted  ground.  .  .  . 

The  trench  had  at  once  slipped  hack  into  its  earlier  com- 
posure. The  dusk  was  now  creeping  down  the  hill;  with 
every  stir  of  the  breeze  more  stars  were  blown  into  the  sky ; 
the  oak  was  all  black  now  like  a  friendly  shadow  protecting 
me. 

"There'll  be  no  more  for  a  while,"  said  the  Colonel.  He 
was  right.  There  was  stillness;  no  battery,  however  dis- 
tant, no  pitter-patter  of  rifle  fire,  no  chattering  report  of  the 
machine  guns. 

Men  began  to  cross  the  yard,  slowly,  without  caution. 
The  dusk  caught  us  so  that  I  could  not  see  the  Colonel's 
face;  a  stream  that  cut  the  field,  hidden  in  the  day,  was 
now  suddenly  revealed  by  a  grinning  careless  moon. 

Then  a  soldier  crossed  the  yard  to  us,  told  us  that  Dr. 
Semyonov  wished  us  to  start  and  had  sent  us  a  guide ;  the 
wagons  were  ready. 

At  that  instant,  whence  I  know  not,  for  the  first  time 
that  day,  excitement  leapt  upon  me. 

Events  had  hitherto  passed  before  me  like  the  shadowed 
film  of  a  cinematograph;  it  had  been  as  though  some  one 
had.  given  me  glimpses  of  a  life,  an  adventure,  a  country 
with  which  I  should  later  have  some  concern  but  whose 
boundaries  I  was  not  yet  to  cross.  Now,  suddenly,  whether 
it  was  because  of  the  dark  and  the  silence  I  cannot  say,  I 
had  become,  myself,  an  actor  in  the  affair.  It  was  not  sim- 
ply that  we  were  given  something  definite  to  do — we  had 
had  wounded  during  the  morning — it  was  rather  that,  as 
in  the  children's  game  we  were  "hot,"  we  had  drawn  in  a 
moment  close  to  some  one  or  something  of  whose  presence 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  97 

we  were  quite  distinctly  aware.  As  we  walked  across  the 
yard  into  the  long  low  field,  speaking  in  whispers,  watching 
a  shaft  of  light,  perhaps  some  distant  projector  that  trem- 
bled in  pale  white  shadows  on  the  horizon,  we  seemed  to  me 
to  be,  in  actual  truth,  the  hunters  of  Trenchard's  dream. 

Never,  surely,  before,  had  I  known  the  world  so  silent. 
Under  the  hedges  that  lined  the  field  there  were  soldiers 
like  ghosts ;  our  own  wagons,  with  the  sanitars  walking  be- 
side them,  moved  across  the  ground  without  even  the  creak 
of  a  wheel.  Semyonov  was  to  meet  us  in  an  hour's  time  at  a 
certain  crossroad.  I  was  given  the  conmaand  of  the  party. 
I  was  now,  in  literal  truth,  breathlessly  excited.  My  heart 
was  beating  in  my  breast  like  some  creature  who  makes 
running  leaps  at  escape.  My  tongue  was  dry  and  my  brain 
hot.  But  I  was  happy  .  .  .  happy  with  a  strange  exalta- 
tion that  was  unlike  any  emotion  that  I  had  known 
before.  It  was  in  part  the  happiness  that  I  had  known 
sometimes  in  Rugby  football  or  in  tennis  when  the  players 
were  evenly  matched  and  the  game  hard,  but  it  was  more 
than  that.  It  had  in  it  something  of  the  happiness  that  I 
have  known,  after  many  days  at  sea,  on  the  first  view  of  land 
— ^but  it  was  more  than  that.  Something  of  the  happiness  of 
possessing,  at  last,  some  object  which  one  has  many  days 
desired  and  never  hoped  to  attain — but  more,  too,  than  that. 
Something  of  the  happiness  of  danger  or  pain  that  one  has 
dreaded  and  finds,  in  actual  truth,  give  way  before  one's 
resolution — but  more,  again,  than  that.  This  happiness, 
this  exultation  that  I  felt  now  but  dimly,  and  was  to  know 
more  fully  afterwards  (but  never,  alas,  as  my  companions 
were  to  know  it)  is  the  subject  of  this  book.  The  scent  of  it, 
the  full  revelation  of  it,  has  not,  until  now,  been  my  reward ; 
I  can  only,  as  a  spectator,  watch  that  revelation  as  it  came 
afterwards  to  others  more  fortunate  than  I.    But  what  I 


98  THE  DARK  FOREST 

write  is  the  truth  as  far  as  I,  from  the  outside,  have  seen  it. 
If  it  is  not  true,  this  book  has  no  value  whatever. 

We  were  warned  by  the  soldier  who  guarded  us  not  to 
walk  in  a  group  and  we  stole  now,  beneath  a  garden-wall, 
white  under  the  moon,  in  a  long  line.  I  could  hear  Tren- 
chard  behind  me  stumbling  over  the  stones  and  ruts,  walk- 
ing as  he  always  did  with  little  jerks,  as  though  his  legs 
were  beyond  his  control.  We  came  then  on  to  the  high  road, 
which  was  so  white  and  clear  in  the  moonlight  that  it  seemed 
as  though  the  whole  Austrian  a'rmy  must  instantly  whisper 
to  themselves :  "Ah,  there  they  are !"  and  fire.  The  ditch 
to  our  right,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  was  lined  with  soldiers, 
hidden  by  the  hedge  behind  them,  their  rifles  just  pointing 
on  to  the  white  surface  of  the  land.  Our  guide  asked  them 
their  division  and  was  answered  in  a  whisper.  The  soldiers 
were  ghosts:  there  was  no  one,  save  ourselves,  alive  in  the 
whole  world.  .  .  . 

Then  a  little  incident  occurred.  I  was  walking  in  the 
rear  of  our  wagons  that  I  might  see  that  all  were  there.  I 
felt  a  touch  on  my  arm  and  found  Audrey  Vassilievitch 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  His  face,  staring  at  me 
as  though  I  were  a  stranger,  expressed  desperate  determina- 
tion. 

"Come  on,"  I  said.    "We've  no  time  to  waste." 

"I'm  not  coming,"  he  whispered  back.  His  voice  was 
breathless  as  though  he  had  been  running. 

"Nonsense,"  I  answered  roughly,  and  I  put  my  hand  on 
hia  arm.    His  body  trembled  in  jerks  and  starts. 

"It's  madness  .  .  .  this  road  .  .  .  the  moon.  ...  Of 
course  they'll  fire.  .  .  .  We'll  all  be  killed.  But  it  isn't 
...  it  isn't  ...  I  can't  move.  .  .  ." 

"You    miist   move.  .  .  .  Come,    Andrey    Vassilievitch, 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  99 

youVe  been  brave  enough  all  day.  There's  no  danger,  I  tell 
you.     See  how  quiet  everything  is.    You  must.  .  .  ." 

"I  can't.  .  .  .  It's  nothing  .  .  .  nothing  to  do  with  me. 
,  .  .  It's  awful  all  day — and  now  this!" 

I  thought  of  Marie  Ivanovna  early  in  the  morning.  I 
looked  down  the  road  and  saw  that  the  wagons  were  slowly 
moving  into  the  distant  shadows. 

"You  nmst  come,"  I  repeated.  "We  can't  leave  you  here. 
Don't  think  of  yourself.  And  nothing  can  touch  you — 
nothing,  I  tell  you." 

"I'll  go  back,  I  must.    I  can't  go  on." 

"Go  back?  How  can  you?  Where  to?  You  can't  go 
back  to  the  trench.  We  shan't  know  where  to  find  you." 
A  furious  anger  seized  me;  I  caught  his  arm.  "I'll  leave 
you,  if  you  like.    There  are  other  things  more  important." 

I  move  away  from  him.  He  looked  down  the  long  road, 
looked  back. 

"Oh,  I  can't  ...  I  can't,"  he  repeated. 

"What  did  you  come  for  ?"  I  whispered  furiously.  "What 
did  you  think  war  was?  .  .  .  Well,  good-bye,  do  as  you 
please !" 

As  I  drew  away  I  saw  a  look  of  desperate  determination 
in  his  eyes.  He  looked  at  me  like  a  dog  who  expects  to  be 
beaten.  Then  what  must  have  been  one  of  the  supreme  mo- 
ments of  his  life  came  to  him.  I  saw  him  struggle  to  com- 
mand, with  the  effort  of  his  whole  soul,  his  terror.  For  a 
moment  he  wavered.  He  made  a  hopeless  gesture  with  his 
hand,  took  two  little  steps  as  though  he  would  run  into  the 
hedge  amongst  the  soldiers  and  hide  there,  then  suddenly 
walked  past  me,  quickly,  towards  the  wagons,  with  his  own 
absurd  little  strut,  with  his  head  up,  giving  his  cough,  look- 
ing, after  that,  neither  to  the  right,  nor  to  the  left. 

In  silence  we  caught  up  the  wagons.      Soon,  at  some 


100  THE  DAKK  FOREST 

cross-roads,  they  came  to  a  pause.  The  guide  was  waiting 
for  me.  "It  would  be  better,  your  Honour,"  he  whispered, 
"for  the  wagons  to  stay  here.  We  shall  go  now  simply  with 
the  stretchers.  .  .  ." 

We  left  the  wagons  and,  some  fifteen  of  us,  turned  off 
down  a  lane  to  the  left.  Sometimes  there  were  soldiers  in 
the  hedges,  sometimes  they  met  us,  slipping  from  shadow 
to  shadow.  Always  we  asked  whether  they  knew  of  any 
wounded.  We  found  a  wounded  soldier  groaning  under  the 
hedge.  One  leg  was  soaked  in  blood  and  he  gave  little  shrill 
desperate  cries  as  we  lifted  him  on  to  the  stretcher.  An- 
other soldier,  lying  on  the  road  in  the  moonlight,  murmured 
incessantly:  "Boje  moi!  Boje  moi!  Boje  moi!"  But 
they  were  all  ghosts.  We  alone,  in  that  familiar  and  yet  so 
unreal  world,  were  alive.  When  a  stretcher  was  filled,  four 
sanitars  turned  back  with  it  to  the  wagons,  and  we  were  soon 
a  very  small  party.  We  arrived  at  a  church — a  large  fan- 
tastic white  church  with  a  green  turret  that  I  had  seen 
from  the  opposite  hill  in  the  morning.  Then  it  had  seemed 
small  and  very  remote.  I  had  been  told  that  much  firing 
had  been  centring  round  it,  and  it  seemed  now  for  me  very 
strange  that  we  should  be  standing  under  its  very  shadow, 
its  outline  so  quiet  and  grave  under  the  moon,  with  its 
churchyard,  a  little  orchard  behind  it,  and  a  garden,  scent- 
ing the  night  air,  close  at  hand.  Here  in  the  graveyard 
there  was  a  group  of  wounded  soldiers,  in  their  eyes  that 
look  of  faithful  expectation  of  certain  relief.  Our  stretch- 
ers were  soon  full. 

We  were  about  to  turn  back  when  suddenly  the  road  be- 
hind us  was  filled  with  shadows.  As  we  came  out  of  the 
churchyard  an  officer  stepped  forward  to  meet  us.  We  sa- 
luted and  shook  hands.    He  seemed  a  boy,  but  stood  in  front 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  101 

of  his  men  with  an  air  as  though  he  commanded  the  whole 
of  this  world  of  ghosts. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  ?"  he  asked. 

We  explained. 

"Well,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  you'd  better  make  haste.  An 
attack  very  shortly  .  .  .  yes.  I  should  advise  you  to  be 
out  of  this.  Petrogradsky  Otriad?  Yes  .  .  .  very  glad 
to  have  the  pleasure.  .  .  ." 

We  left  him,  his  men  a  grey  cloud  behind  him,  aud  when 
we  had  taken  a  few  steps  he  seemed,  with  his  young  air  of 
importance,  his  happy  serious  courtesy,  to  have  been  called 
out  of  the  ground,  then,  with  all  his  shadows  behind  him,  to 
have  been  caught  up  into  the  air.  These  were  not  figures 
that  had  anything  to  do  with  the  little  curling  wreaths  of 
smoke,  the  bottles  cracking  in  the  sun,  our  furious  giants  of 
the  morning. 

"Ah,  Boje  moi,  Boje  moil"  sighed  the  wounded.  ...  It 
was  impossible,  in  such  a  world  of  dim  shadow,  that  there 
should  ever  be  any  other  sound  again. 

My  excitement  had  never  left  me;  I  had  had  no  doubt, 
during  this  last  half-hour,  that  I  was  on  the  Enchanted 
Ground  of  the  Enemy,  so  stray  and  figurative  had  been  my 
impressions  all  day.  Now  they  were  all  gathered  into  this 
half-hour  and  the  whole  affair  received  its  climax.  "Ah," 
I  thought  to  myself,  "if  I  might  only  stay  here  now  I  should 
draw  closer  and  closer — I  should  make  my  discovery,  hunt 
him  down.  But  just  when  I  am  on  the  verge  I  must  leave 
it  all.    Ah,  if  I  could  but  stay !" 

Nevertheless  we  hastened.  The  world,  in  spite  of  the 
ghosts,  was  real  enough  for  us  to  be  conscious  of  that  attack 
looming  behind  us.  We  found  our  wagons,  transferred  our 
wounded,  then  hurried  down  the  road.  We  found  the 
cross-roads  and  there,  waiting  for  us,  Semyonov  and  Mario 


102  THE  DAKK  FOREST 

Ivanovna.  Standing  in  the  moonlight,  commanding,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  all  of  us,  even  Semyonov,  she  was  a  very 
different  figure  from  the  frightened  girl  of  the  early  morn- 
ing. Now  her  life  was  in  her  eyes,  her  body  inflamed  with 
the  fire  of  the  things  that  had  come  to  her.  So  young  in 
experience  was  she,  so  ignorant  of  all  earlier  adventure,  that 
she  could  well  be  seized,  utterly  and  completely,  by  her  new 
vision  .  .  .  possessed  by  some  vision  she  was. 

And  that  vision  was  not  Trenchard.  Seeing  her,  he  hur- 
ried towards  her,  with  a  glad  cry: 

"Ah,  you  are  safe!" 

But  she  did  not  notice  him. 

"Quick,  this  way!  .  .  .  Yes,  the  stretchers  here.  .  .  . 
No,  I  have  everything.  ...  At  once.  There  is  little 
time!" 

The  wounded  were  laid  on  the  stretchers  in  the  square  of 
the  cross-roads.  Semyonov  and  Marie  Ivanovna  bandaged 
them  under  the  moonlight  and  with  the  aid  of  electric- 
torches.  On  every  side  of  me  there  were  little  dialogues: 
"No  .  .  .  not  there.  More  this  way.  Yes,  that  bandage 
will  do.  It's  fresh.  Hold  up  his  leg.  No,  durak,  under 
the  knee  there.  .  .  .  Where's  the  lint?  .  .  .  Turn  him  a 
little — there — like  that.  Horosho,  golithchiJc.  .SeitchassI 
No,  turn  it  back  over  the  thigh.  Now,  once  more  .  .  . 
that's  it.  What's  that — ^bullet  or  shrapnel?  .  .  .  Take  it 
back  again,  over  the  shoulder.  .  .  .  Yes,  twice !" 

Once  I  caught  sight  of  Trenchard,  hurrying  to  be  useful 
with  the  little  bottle  of  iodine,  stumbling  over  one  of  the 
stretchers,  causing  tiie  wounded  man  to  cry  out. 

Then  Semyonov's  voice  angrily : 

"Tchort!     Who's  that?  ...  Ah,  Meester!  of  course!" 

Then  Marie  Ivanovna's  voice :  "I've  finished  this,  Alexei 
PetiDvitch.  .  .  .  That's  all,  isn't  it  ?" 


THE  INVISIBLE  BATTLE  103 

These  voices  were  all  whispers,  floating  from  one  side  of 
the  road  to  the  other.  The  wounded  men  were  lifted  back 
on  to  the  wagons.  We  moved  off  again ;  Semyonov,  Tren- 
chard,  Marie  Ivanovna  and  I  were  now  sitting  together. 

We  left  the  flat  fields  where  we  had  been  so  busy.  Very 
slowly  we  began  to  climb  the  hill  down  which  I  had  come 
this  afternoon.  Behind  m©  was  a  great  fan  of  country, 
black  now  under  a  hidden  moon,  dead  as  though  our  retreat 
from  it,  depriving  it  of  the  last  proofs  of  life,  had  flung  it 
back  into  non-existence.  Before  us  was  the  black  forest. 
Not  a  sound  save  the  roll  of  our  wheels  and,  sometimes,  a 
cry  from  one  of  the  wounded  soldiers,  not  a  stir  of  wind.  .  .  . 

I  looked  back.  Without  an  instant's  warning  that  dead 
world,  as  a  match  is  set  to  a  waiting  bonfire,  broke  into 
flame.  A  thousand  rockets  rose,  soaring,  in  streams  of 
light  into  the  dark  sky ;  the  fields  that  had  been  vapour  ran 
now  with  light.  A  huge  projector,  the  eye,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  of  that  enemy  for  whom  I  had  all  day  been  searching, 
slowly  wheeled  across  the  world,  cutting  a  great  path  across 
the  plain,  picking  houses  and  trees  and  fields  out  of  space, 
then  dropping  them  back  again.  The  rockets  were  gold 
and  green,  sometimes  as  it  seemed  ringed  with  fire,  some- 
times cold  like  dead  moons,  sometimes  sparkling  and  quiv- 
ering like  great  stars.  And  with  this  light  the  whole  world 
crackled  into  sound  as  though  the  sky,  a  vast  china  plate, 
had  been  smashed  by  some  angry  god  and  been  flung,  in  a 
million  pieces,  to  earth.  The  rifle-fire  rose  from  horizon 
to  horizon  like  a  living  thing.  Now  the  shrapnel  rose, 
hreaking  on  the  dark  sky  in  flashes  of  fire.  Suddenly  some 
house  was  burning  I  The  flames  rose  in  a  column,  break- 
ing into  tongues  that  advanced  and  retreated,  climbed  and 
fell  again.  In  the  farthest  distance  other  houses  had  caught 
and  their  glow  trembled  in  faint  yellow  light  fading  into 


104  THE  DAKK  FOREST 

shadow  when  the  projector  found  them.  With  a  roar  at  our 
back  our  own  cannon  began ;  the  world  bellowed  and  shook 
and  trembled  at  our  feet. 

We  reached  the  top  of  the  hill.  I  caught  one  final  •'^sion, 
the  picture  seeming  to  sway  with  all  its  lights,  its  shadows, 
its  giant  eye  that  governed  it,  its  colours  and  its  mist,  like 
a  tapestry  blown  by  wind.  I  saw  in  our  wagon,  their  faces 
lighted  by  the  fire,  Semyonov  and  Marie  Ivanovna.  Sem- 
yonov  knelt  on  the  wooden  barrier  of  the  cart,  his  figure 
outlined  square  and  strong.  She  was  kneeling  behind  him, 
her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  Her  face  was  exultant,  victori- 
ous. She  seemed  to  me  the  inspirer  of  that  scene,  to  have 
created  it,  to  hold  it  now  with  the  authority  of  her  gaze. 

Behind  her  Trenchard  was  in  shadow. 

We  were  on  the  hill-top,  the  cannon,  as  it  seemed,  on 
every  side  of  us.  We  hung  for  a  moment  so,  the  sky  fiaming 
up  to  our  feet.  Then  we  had  fallen  down  between  the  woods, 
every  step  muffling  the  sounds.  Everything  was  dark  as 
though  a  curtain  had  been  dropped. 

Semyonov  turned  round  to  me. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "there's  your  battle.  .  .  .  You've  been 
in  the  thick  of  it  to-day !" 

I  saw  his  eyes  turned  to  Marie  Ivanovna  as  though  al- 
ready he  possessed  her. 

I  was  suddenly  tired,  disappointed,  exhausted. 

"We've  not  been  in  the  thick  of  it,"  I  answered.  "We 
have  missed  it — all  day  we  have  missed  it !" 

I  tried  to  settle  down  in  my  wagon.  "I  beg  your  par- 
don," I  said  irritably  to  Trenchard,  "but  your  boot  is  in  my 
neck!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

■STKCriN 

BUT  this  is  not  my  story.  If  I  have  hitherto  taken  the 
chief  place  it  is  because,  in  some  degree,  the  impres- 
sions of  Trenchard,  Marie  Ivanovna,  Andrey  Vassilievitch 
must,  during  those  first  days,  have  run  with  my  own.  We 
had  all  been  brought  to  the  same  point — that  last  vision  from 

the  hill  of  the  battle  of  S and  from  that  day  we  were 

no  longer  apprentices. 

I  now  then  retire.  What  happened  to  myself  during  the 
succeeding  months  is  of  no  matter.  But  two  warnings  may 
be  offered.  The  first  is  that  it  must  not  be  supposed  that 
the  experiences  of  myself,  of  Trenchard,  of  Nikitin  in  this 
business  found  their  parallel  in  any  other  single  human 
being  alive.  It  would  be  quite  possible  to  select  every  indi- 
vidual member  of  our  Otriad  and  to  prove  from  their  case 
that  the  effect  of  war  upon  the  human  soul — ^whether  Rus- 
sian or  English — was  thus  and  thus.  A  study,  for  example, 
might  be  made  of  Anna  Petrovna  to  show  that  the  effect  of 
war  is  simply  nothing  at  all,  that  any  one  who  pretends  to 
extract  cases  and  contrasts  from  the  contact  of  war  with  the 
soul  is  simply  peddling  in  melodrama.  Anna  Petrovna  her- 
self would  certainly  have  been  of  that  opinion.     Or  one 

might  select  Sister  K and  prove  from  her  case  that  the 

effect  of  war  was  to  display  the  earthly  failings  and  wick- 
edness of  mankind,  that  it  was  a  punishment  hurled  by  an 
irate  Gbd  upon  an  unrepentant  people  and  that  any  one  who 

105 


106  THE  DAEK  FOKEST 

saw  beauty  or  courage  in  such  a  business  was  a  sham  senti- 
mentalist.   Sister  K would  take  a  gloomy  joy  in  such  a 

denunciation.  Or  if  one  selected  the  boy  Goga  it  would  be 
simply  to  state  that  war  was  an  immensely  jolly  business,  in 
which  one  stood  the  chance  of  winning  the  Georgian  medal 
and  thus  triumphing  over  one's  schoolfellows,  in  which 
people  were  certainly  killed  but  "it  couldn't  happen  to  one- 
self" ;  meals  were  plentiful,  there  were  horses  to  ride,  one 
was  spoken  to  pleasantly  by  captains  and  even  generals. 
Moreover  one  wore  a  uniform. 

Or  if  Molozov,  our  chief,  were  questioned  he  would  most 
certainly  say  that  war,  as  he  saw  it,  was  mainly  a  business 
of  diplomacy,  a  business  of  keeping  the  people  around  one 
in  good  temper,  the  soldiers  in  good  order,  the  generals  and 
their  staffs  in  good  appetite,  the  other  Red  Cross  organisa- 
tions in  good  self-conceit,  and  himself  in  good  health.  All 
these  things  he  did  most  admirably  and  he  had,  moreover, 
a  heart  that  felt  as  deeply  for  Russia  as  any  heart  in  the 
world;  but  see  the  matter  psychologically  or  even  dramat- 
ically he  would  not.  He  had  his  own  "nerves"  and  on  oc- 
casion he  displayed  them,  but  war  was  for  him,  entirely,  a 
thing  of  training  opposed  to  training,  strategy  opposed  to 
strategy,  method  and  system  opposed  to  method  and  system. 
For  our  doctors  again,  war  was  half  an  affair  of  blood  and 
bones,  half  an  affair  of  longing  for  home  and  children.  The 
army  doctors  contemplated  our  voluntary  efforts  with  a  cer- 
tain irony.  What  could  we  understand  of  war  when  we 
might,  if  we  pleased,  return  home  at  any  moment  ?  Why, 
it  was  simply  a  picnic  to  us.  .  .  .  No,  they  saw  in  it  no 
drama  whatever. 

Nevertheless  how  are  we  to  be  assured  that  these  others, 

Anna  Petrovna,  Sister  K ,  Goga,  the  Doctors  had  not 

their  own  secret  view  ?    The  subject  here  is  simply  the  at- 


NIKITIN  107 

titude  of  certain  private  persons  with  whom  I  was  allowed 
some  intimacy  .  .  .  for  the  rest  one  has  no  right  to  speak. 

There  comes  then  the  second  difficulty,  namely:  that  of 
Nikitin,  Andrey  Vassilievitch,  Semyonov  and  Marie  Iva- 
novna  one  can  only  present  a  foreign  point  of  view.  Of 
Kikitin  and  Andrey  Vassilievitch,  at  least,  I  was  the  friend, 
but  however  deeply  a  Russian  admits  an  Englishman  into 
friendship  he  can,  to  the  very  last,  puzzle,  confuse,  utterly 
surprise  him.  The  Russian  character  seems,  superficially, 
with  its  lack  of  restraint,  its  idealism,  its  impracticality, 
its  mysticism,  its  material  simplicities,  to  be  so  readily 
grasped  that  the  surprise  that  finally  remains  is  the  more 
dumbfounding.  Perhaps  after  all  it  is  the  very  closeness 
of  our  resemblance  the  one  to  the  other  that  confuses  us. 
It  is,  perhaps,  that  in  the  Russians'  soul  the  East  can  never 
be  reconciled  to  the  West.  It  is  perhaps  that  the  Russian 
never  reveals  his  secret  ideal  even  to  himself;  far  distant 
is  it  then  from  his  friend.  It  may  be  that  towards  other 
men  the  Russian  is  indifferent  and  towards  women  his  rela- 
tion is  so  completely  sexual  that  his  true  character  is  hid- 
den from  her.  Whatever  it  be  that  surprise  remains.  For 
to  those  whom  Russia  and  her  people  draw  back  again  and 
again,  however  sternly  they  may  resist,  this  sure  truth 
stands:  that  here  there  is  a  mystery,  a  mystery  that  may 
never  be  discovered.  In  the  very  soul  of  Russia  the  mystery 
is  stirring;  here  the  restlessness,  the  eagerness,  the  disap- 
pointment, the  vision  of  the  pursuit  is  working;  and  some 
who  are  outside  her  gates  she  has  drawn  into  that  same 
search. 

I  am  not  sure  whether  I  may  speak  of  Nikitin  as  my 
friend.  I  believe  that  no  one  in  our  Otriad  save  Trenchard 
could  make,  with  truth,  this  claim.  But  for  his  own  rea- 
sons or,  perhaps,  for  no  reason  at  all,  he  chose  me  on  two 


108  THE  DARK  FOREST 

occasions  as  his  confidant,  and  of  these  two  occasions  I  can 
recall  every  detail. 

We  returned  that  night  from  S to  find  that  the  whole 

Otriad  had  settled  in  the  village  of  M ,  where  I  myself 

had  been  the  night  before.  We  were  all  living  in  an  empty 
deserted  farmhouse,  with  a  yard,  a  big  orchard,  wide  bams 
and  a  wild  overrun  garden.  We  were,  I  think,  a  little  dis- 
appointed at  the  very  languid  interest  that  the  history  of 
our  adventures  roused,  but  the  truth  was  that  the  wounded 
had  begun  to  arrive  in  great  numbers  and  there  was  no  time 
for  travellers'  stories. 

A  dream,  I  know,  yesterday's  experiences  seemed  to  me 
as  I  settled  down  to  the  business  that  had  filled  so  much  of 
my  earlier  period  at  the  war.  Here,  with  the  wounded, 
I  was  at  home — ^the  bare  little  room,  the  table  with  the 
bottles  and  bandages  and  scissors,  the  basins  and  dishes, 
the  air  ever  thicker  and  thicker  with  that  smell  of  dried 
blood,  unwashed  bodies,  and  iodine  that  is  like  no  other 
smell  in  the  world.  The  room  would  be  crowded,  the  sani- 
tars  supporting  legs  and  arms  and  heads,  nurses  dashing  to 
the  table  for  bandages  or  iodine  or  scissors,  three  or  four 
stretchers  occupying  the  floor  of  the  room  with  the  soldiers 
who  were  too  severely  wounded  to  sit  or  stand,  these  soldiers 
often  utterly  quiet,  dying  perhaps,  or  watching  with  eyes 
that  realised  only  dreams  and  shadows,  the  little  window 
square,  the  strip  of  sky,  the  changing  colours  of  the  day; 
then  the  sitting  soldiers,  on  ordinary  of  a  marvellous  and 
most  simple  patience,  watching  the  bandaging  of  their  arms 
and  hands  and  legs,  whispering  sometimes  "Boje  moi!  Boje 
moi!"  dragging  themselves  up  from  their  desperate  struggle 
for  endurance  to  answer  the  sanitars  who  asked  their  name, 
their  regiments,  the  nature  of  their  wounds.     Sometimes 


NIKITIN  109 

they  would  talk,  telling  how  the  thing  had  happened  to 
them: 

"And  there,  your  Honour,  before  I  could  move,  she  had 
come — such  a  noise — eh,  eh,  a  terrible  thing — I  called  out 
'Zemliac.    Here  it  is!'  I  said,  and  he  .  .  ." 

But  as  a  rule  they  were  very  quiet,  starting  perhaps  at  the 
sting  of  the  iodine,  asking  for  a  bandage  to  be  tighter  or 
not  so  tight,  sometimes  suddenly  slipping  in  a  faint  to  the 
ground,  and  then  apologising  afterwards.  And  in  their  eyes 
always  that  look  as  though,  very  shortly,  they  would  hear 
some  story  so  marvellous  that  it  would  compensate  for  all 
their  present  pain  and  distress.  There  would  be  the  doc- 
tors, generally  two  at  a  time — Semyonov,  unmoved,  rough 
apparently  in  his  handling  of  the  men  but  always  accom- 
plishing his  work  with  marvellous  efficiency,  abusing  the 
nurses  and  sanitars  without  hesitation  if  they  did  not  do 
as  he  wished,  but  never  raising  his  soft  ironic  voice,  his 
square  body  of  a  solidity  and  composure  that  nothing  could 
ruffle,  his  fair  beard,  his  blue  eyes,  his  spotless  linen  all 
sharing  in  his  self-assured  superiority  to  us  all ;  one  of  the 
Division  doctors,  Alexei  Ivanovitch,  a  man  from  Little 
Russia,  beloved  of  us  all,  whether  in  the  Otriad  or  the  army, 
a  character  possessing  it  seemed  none  of  the  Russian  moods 
and  sensibilities,  of  the  kindest  heart  but  no  sentimentality, 
utterly  free  from  self-praise,  self-interest,  self-assertion,  hu- 
morous, loving  passionately  his  country  and,  with  all  his 
Russian  romance  and  even  mysticism,  packed  with  practical 
common  sense ;  another  Division  doctor,  a  young  man,  carv- 
ing for  himself  a  practice  out  of  Moscow  merchants, 
crammed  with  all  the  latest  inventions  and  discoveries,  car- 
ing for  nothing  save  his  own  career  and  frankly  saying  so, 
but  a  lively  optimist  whose  belief  in  his  own  powers  was 
quite  refreshing  in  its  sincerity. 


110  THE  DAEK  FOREST 

In  such  a  place  and  under  such  conditions  Semyonov  had 
at  the  earlier  period  been  master  of  us  all.  The  effect  of 
his  personality  was  such  that  we  had,  every  one  of  us,  be- 
lieved him  invincible.  The  very  frankness  of  his  estimate 
of  the  world  and  ourselves  as  the  most  worthless  and  in- 
competent bundle  of  rubbish,  caused  us  to  yield  completely 
to  him.  We  believed  that  he  rated  himself  but  little  higher 
than  the  rest  of  us.  He  was  superior  but  only  because  he 
saw  so  clearly  with  eyes  purged  of  sentiment  and  credulity. 
We,  poor  creatures,  had  still  our  moments  of  faith  and  con- 
fidence. I  had  never  liked  him  and  during  these  last  days 
had  positively  hated  him.  I  did  not  doubt  that  he  was 
making  the  frankest  love  to  Marie  Ivanovna  and  I  thought 
he  was  influencing  her.  .  .  .  Trenchard  was  my  friend, 
and  what  an  infant  indeed  he  seemed  against  Semyonov's 
scornful  challenge ! 

But  now,  behold,  Semyonov  had  his  rival !  If  Semyonov 
cared  nothing  for  any  of  us,  Nikitin,  it  was  plain  enough, 
cared  nothing  for  Semyonov.  From  the  very  first  the  two 
men  had  been  opponents.  It  seemed  as  though  Nikitin's 
great  stature  and  fine  air,  as  of  a  king  travelling  in  disguise 
from  some  foreign  country,  made  him  the  only  man  in  the 
world  to  put  out  Semyonov's  sinister  blaze.  Kikitin  was  an 
idealist,  a  mystic,  a  dreamer — everything  that  Semyonov 
was  not.  It  is  true  that  if  we  mattered  nothing  at  all  to 
Semyonov,  we  also  mattered  nothing  at  all  to  Nikitin,  but 
for  Nikitin  there  were  dreams,  visions,  memories  and 
hopes.  We  were  contented  to  be  banished  from  his  atten- 
tion when  we  were  aware  that  happier  objects  detained  him. 
We  might  envy  him,  we  could  not  dislike  him. 

Semyonov  never  sneered  at  Nikitin.  From  the  first  he 
left  him  absolutely  alone.  The  two  men  simply  avoided  one 
another  in  so  far  as  was  possible  in  a  company  so  closely  con- 


OTKITIK  111 

fined  as  ours.  From  the  first  they  treated  one  another  with 
a  high  and  almost  extravagant  politeness.  As  Nikitin  spoke 
but  seldom,  there  was  little  opportunity  for  the  manifesta- 
tion of  what  Semyonov  must  have  considered  "his  childishly 
romantic  mind,"  and  Nikitin,  on  his  side,  made  on  no  single 
occasion  a  reply  to  the  challenge  of  Semyonov's  caustic  cyni- 
cism. 

But  if  Nikitin  was  an  idealist  he  was  also,  as  was  quite 
evident,  a  doctor  of  absolutely  first-rate  ability  and  effi- 
ciency. I  was  present  at  the  first  operation  that  he  con- 
ducted with  us — an  easy  amputation.  Semyonov  was  as- 
sisting and  I  know  that  he  watched  eagerly  for  some  slip 
or  hesitation.  It  was  an  operation  that  any  medical  stu- 
dent might  have  conducted  with  success,  but  the  first  inci- 
sion of  the  knife  showed  Nikitin  a  surgeon  of  genius.  Sem- 
yonov recognised  it  ...  I  fancied  that  from  that  moment 
I  could  detect  in  his  attitude  to  Nikitin  a  puzzled  wonder 
that  such  an  artist  could  be  at  the  same  time  such  a  fool. 

I  began  to  feel  in  Nikitin  a  very  lively  interest.  I  had 
from  the  first  been  conscious  of  his  presence,  his  distinction, 
his  attitude  of  patient  expectation  and  continuously  happy 
reminiscence;  but  I  felt  now  for  the  first  time  a  closer, 
more  personal  interest.  From  the  first,  as  I  have  said  on  an 
earlier  page,  his  relationship  to  Audrey  Vassilievitch  had  ^ 
puzzled  me.  If  Nikitin  were  not  of  the  common  race  of 
men,  most  assuredly  was  Audrey  Vassilievitch  of  the  most 
ordinary  in  the  world.  He  was  a  little  man  of  a  type  in  no 
way  distinctively  Russian — a  type  very  common  in  Eng- 
land, in  America,  in  France,  in  Germany.  He  was,  one 
would  have  said,  of  the  world  worldly,  a  man  who,  with  a 
sharp  business  brain,  had  acquired  for  himself  houses,  lands, 
food,  servants,  acquaintances.  Upon  these  achievements  he 
would  pride  himself,  having  worked  with  his  own  hand  to 


112  THE  DARK  FOREST 

his  own  advantage,  having  beaten  other  men  who  had  started 
the  race  from  the  same  mark  as  himself.  He  would  be  a 
man  of  a  kindly  disposition,  hospitable,  generous  at  times 
when  needs  were  put  plainly  before  him,  but  yet  of  little 
imagination,  conventional  in  all  his  standards,  readily  in- 
fluenced outside  his  business  by  any  chance  acquaintance, 
but  nevertheless  having  his  eye  on  worldly  advantage  and 
progress ;  he  would  be  timid  of  soul,  playing  always  for 
safety,  taking  the  easiest  way  with  all  emotion,  treading  al- 
ways the  known  road,  accepting  day  by  day  the  creed  that 
was  given  to  him ;  he  would  be,  outside  his  brain,  of  a  poor 
intelligence,  accepting  the  things  of  art  on  the  standard 
of  popular  applause,  talking  with  a  stupid  garrulity  about 
matters  of  which  he  had  no  first-hand  knowledge — proud  of 
his  position  as  a  man  of  the  world,  wise  in  the  character 
and  moods  of  men  of  which,  in  reality,  he  knew  nothing. 
Had  he  been  an  Englishman  or  a  German,  this  would  have 
been  all  and  yet,  because  he  was  a  Russian,  this  was  not  even 
the  beginning  of  the  matter. 

I  had,  as  I  have  already  said,  in  earlier  days  known  him 
only  slightly.  I  had  once  stayed  for  three  days  in  his  coun- 
try-house and  it  was  here  that  I  had  met  his  wife.  Russian 
houses  are  open  to  all  the  world  and,  with  such  a  man  as 
Audrey  Vassilievitch,  through  the  doors  crowds  of  men 
and  women  are  always  coming  and  going,  treating  their  host 
like  the  platform  of  a  railway  station,  eating  his  meals, 
sleeping  on  his  beds,  making  rendezvous  with  their  friends, 
and  yet  almost,  on  their  departure,  forgetting  his  very  name.  • 

My  visit  had  been  of  a  date  now  some  five  years  old.  I 
can  only  remember  that  his  wife  did  not  make  any  very 
definite  impression  upon  me,  a  little  quiet  woman,  of  a 
short  figure,  with  kind,  rather  sleepy  eyes,  a  soft  voice,  and 
the  air  of  one  who  knows  her  housewifely  business  to  per- 


NIKITIN  113 

fection  and  has  joy  in  her  knowledge.  "N^ot  interesting," 
I  would  have  judged  her,  but  I  had  during  my  stay  no 
personal  talk  with  her.  It  was  only  after  my  visit  that  I 
was  told  that  this  quiet  woman  was  the  passion  of  Audrey 
Vassilievitch's  life.  He  had  been  over  thirty  when  he  had 
married  her ;  she  had  been  married  before,  had  been  treated, 
I  was  informed,  with  great  brutality  by  her  husband  who 
had  left  her.  She  had  then  divorced  him.  Praise  of  her, 
I  discovered,  was  universal.  She  was  apparently  a  woman 
who  created  love  in  others,  but  this  by  no  marked  virtues 
or  cleverness;  no  one  said  of  her  that  she  was  "brilliant," 
"charming,"  "fascinating."  People  spoke  of  her  as  though 
here  at  least  there  was  some  one  of  whom  they  were  sure, 
some  one  too  who  made  them  the  characters  they  wished  to 
be,  some  one  finally  who  had  not  surrendered  herself,  who 
gave  them  her  love  but  not  her  whole  soul,  keeping  always 
mystery  enough  to  maintain  her  independence.  No  scandal 
was  connected  with  her  name.  I  heard  of  Nikitin  and 
others  as  her  friends,  and  that  was  all.  Then,  quite  sud- 
denly, two  months  before  the  beginning  of  the  war,  she  died. 
They  said  that  Audrey  Vassilievitch  was  like  a  lost  dog, 
wished  also  at  first  to  talk  to  all  who  had  known  her,  weary- 
ing her  friends  with  his  reminiscences,  his  laments,  his  com- 
plaints— then  suddenly  silent,  speaking  to  no  one  about  her, 
at  first  burying  himself  in  his  business,  then  working  on 
some  committee  in  connexion  with  one  of  the  hospitals, 
then,  as  it  appeared  on  the  impulse  of  a  moment,  departing 
to  the  war. 

I  had  expected  to  find  him  a  changed  man  and  was,  per- 
haps, disappointed  that  he  should  appear  the  same  chatter- 
ing feather-headed  little  character  whom  I  had  known  of 
old.  Nevertheless  I  knew  well  enough  that  there  was  mors 
here  than  I  could  see,  and  that  the  root  of  the  matter  was 


114  THE  DAKK  FOKEST 

to  be  found  in  his  connexion  with  Nikitin.  In  our  Otriad, 
friendships  were  continually  springing  up  and  dying  down. 
Some  one  would  confide  to  one  that  so-and-so  was  "wonder- 
fully sympathetic."  From  the  other  side  one  would  hear 
the  same.  For  some  days  these  friends  would  be  undivided, 
would  search  out  from  the  Otriad  the  others  who  were  of 
their  mind,  would  lose  no  opportunity  of  declaring  their 
"sympathy,"  would  sit  together  at  table,  work  together  over 
the  bandaging,  unite  together  in  the  public  discussions  that 
were  frequent  and  to  a  stranger's  eye  horribly  heated.  Then 
very  soon  there  would  come  a  rift.  How  could  that  Rus- 
sian passionate  longing  for  justified  idealism  be  realised? 
Once  more  there  were  faults,  spots  on  the  sun,  selfishness, 
bad  temper,  narrowness,  what  you  please.  And  at  every 
fresh  disappointment  would  my  companions  be  as  surprised 
as  though  the  same  thing  had  not  happened  to  them  only  a 
fortnight  ago. 

"But  only  last  week  you  liked  him  so  much!" 

"How  could  I  know  that  he  would  hold  such  opinions? 
l^ever  in  my  life  have  I  been  more  surprised." 

So  upon  these  little  billows  sailed  the  stout  bark  of  Rus- 
sian idealism,  rising,  falling,  never  overwhelmed,  always 
bravely  confident,  never  seeking  for  calm  waters,  refusing 
them  indeed  for  their  very  placidity. 

But  in  the  midst  of  these  shifting  fortunes  there  were 
certain  alliances  and  relationships  that  never  changed. 
Amongst  these  was  the  alliance  of  Nikitin  and  Audrey  Vas- 
silievitch.  Friendship  it  could  not  be  called.  Nikitin,  al- 
though apparently  he  was  kindly  to  the  little- man,  yielded 
him  no  intimacy.  It  seemed  to  us  a  very  one-sided  busi- 
ness, depending  partly  upon  Audrey  Vassilievitch's  con- 
tinual assertions  that  Nikitin  was  "his  oldest  /riend  and  the 
closest  friend  of  his  wife,"  that  "Nikitin  was  one  of  the 


NIKITm  115 

most  remarkable  men  in  the  world,"  that  "only  his  intimate 
friends  could  know  how  remarkable  he  was" ;  partly  too 
upon  the  dog-like  capacity  of  Audrey  Vassilievitch  to  fetch 
and  carry  for  his  friend,  to  put  himself  indeed  to  the  great- 
est inconvenience.  It  was  pathetic  to  see  the  flaming  pleas- 
ure in  the  man's  eyes  when  Nikitin  permitted  him  to  wait 
upon  him,  and  how  ironically,  upon  such  an  occasion,  would 
Semyonov  watch  them  both ! 

In  spite  of  Nikitin's  passivity  he  did,  I  fancied,  more 
than  merely  suffer  this  unequal  alliance.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  there  was  behind  his  silence  some  active  wish  that  the 
affair  should  continue.  I  should  speak  too  strongly  if  I 
were  to  say  that  he  took  pleasure  in  the  man's  company,  but 
he  did,  I  believe,  almost  in  spite  of  himself,  secretly  encour- 
age it.  And  there  was,  in  spite  of  the  comedy  that  persist- 
ently hovered  about  his  figure  and  habits,  some  fine  spirit 
in  Audrey  Vassilievitch's  championship  of  his  hero.  How 
he  hated  Semyonov !  How  he  losl  no  single  opportunity  of 
trying  to  bring  Nikitin  forward  in  public,  of  proving  to 
the  world  who  was  the  greater  of  the  two  men !  Something 
very  single-hearted  shone  through  the  colour  of  his  loyalty ; 
nothing,  I  was  convinced,  could  swerve  him  from  his  fidel- 
ity.   That,  at  least,  was  until  death. 

There  arose  then  in  these  days  of  the  wounded  at  M 

a  strange  relationship  between  myself  and  Nikitin.  Friend- 
ship, I  have  said,  I  may  not  call  it.  Nikitin  afterwards 
told  me  it  was  my  interest  in  the  study  of  human  character 
that  led  to  his  frankness — as  though  he  had  said,  "Here  is  a 
man  who  likes  to  play  a  certain  game.  I  also  enjoy  it.  We 
will  play  it  together,  but  when  the  game  is  finished  we 
separate."  Although  discussions  as  to  the  characters  of  one 
or  another  of  us  were  continuous  and,  to  an  Englishman  at 
any  rate,  most  strangely  public,  I  do  not  think  that  the  Rus- 


116  THE  DARK  FOREST 

fiians  in  our  Otriad  were  really  interested  in  human  psy- 
chology. One  criticised  or  praised  in  order  to  justify  some 
personal  disappointment  or  pleasure.  There  was  nothing 
that  gave  our  company  greater  pleasure  than  to  declare  in 
full  voice  that  "So-and-so  was  a  dear,  most  sympathetic,  a 
fine  man."  Public  praise  was  continuous  and  the  most  hon- 
est and  spontaneous  affair;  if  criticism  sometimes  followed 
with  surprising  quickness  that  was  spontaneous  too ;  all  the 
emotions  in  our  Otriad  were  spontaneous  to  the  very  ex- 
treme of  spontaneity.  But  we  were  not  real  students  of 
one  another ;  we  were  content  to  call  things  by  their  names, 
to  call  silence  silence,  obstinacy  obstinacy,  good  temper  good 
temper,  and  leave  it  at  that. 

ISTo  one,  I  think,  really  considered  ^N^ikitin  at  all  deeply. 
They  admired  him  for  his  "quiet"  but  would  have  liked 
him  better  had  he  shared  some  of  their  frankness — and  that 
was  all. 

It  happened  that  for  several  days  I  worked  in  the  bandag- 
ing room  directly  under  Nikitin.  The  work  had  a  peculiar 
and  really  unanalysable  fascination  for  me.  It  was  perhaps 
the  directness  of  contact  that  pleased  me.  I  suppose  one 
felt  that  here  at  any  rate  one  was  doing  immediate  practical 
good,  relieving  distress  and  agony  that  must,  by  some  one, 
be  immediately  relieved ;  and,  at  any  rate,  in  the  first  days 

at  M when  the  press  of  wounded  was  terrific   (we 

treated,  in  one  day  and  night,  nine  hundred  wounded  sol- 
diers) there  could  be  no  doubt  of  the  real  demand  for  inces- 
sant tireless  work.  But  there  was  in  my  pleasure  more  than 
this.  It  was  as  though,  through  the  bodies  of  the  wounded 
soldiers,  I  was  helping  to  drive  home  the  attack  upon  our 
enemy.  By  our  enemy  I  do  not  mean  anything  as  con- 
cretely commonplace  as  the  German  nation.  One  scarcely 
considered  Germany  as  a  definite  personality.     One  was 


NIKITIN  117 

resolved  to  cripple  its  power  because  one  believed  that 
power  to  be  a  menace  to  the  helpless,  the  innocent,  the  lovers 
of  truth  and  beauty;  but  that  resolve,  although  it  never 
altered,  seemed  (the  nearer  one  approached  the  citadel)  in 
some  way  to  be  farther  and  farther  removed  from  the  real 
question.  Germany  was  of  no  importance,  and  the  ruin  that 
Germany  was  wreaking  was  of  no  importance  compared 
with  the  histories  of  the  individual  souls  that  were  now  in 
the  making.     Here  were  we:     Nikitin,  Trenchard,  Sister 

K ,  Molozov,  myself  and  the  others — engaged  upon  our 

great  adventure.  Across  the  surface  of  the  world,  at  this 
same  instant,  out  upon  the  same  hunt,  seeking  the  same 
answer  to  their  mystery,  were  millions  of  our  fellows. 
Somewhere  in  the  heart  of  the  deep  forest  the  enemy  was 
hiding.  We  would  defeat  him?  He  would  catch  us  un- 
awares ?  He  had  some  plot,  some  hidden  surprise  ?  What 
should  we  find  when  we  met  him  ?  .  .  .  We  hated  Germany, 
God  knows,  with  a  quiet,  unresting,  interminable  hatred, 
but  it  was  not  Germany  that  we  were  fighting. 

And  these  wounded  knew  something  that  we  did  not. 
In  the  first  moments  of  their  agony  when  we  met  them 
their  souls  had  not  recovered  from  the  shock  of  their  en- 
counter. It  was,  with  many  of  them,  more  than  the  mere' 
physical  pain.  They  were  still  held  by  some  discovery  at 
whose  very  doors  they  had  been.  The  discovery  itself  had 
not  been  made  by  them,  but  they  had  been  so  near  to  it  that 
many  of  them  would  never  be  the  same  man  again.  "No, 
your  Honour,"  one  soldier  said  to  me.  "It  isn't  my  arm. 
.  .  .  That  is  nothing,  Slava  Bogu  .  .  .  but  life  isn't  so 
real  now.    It  is  half  gone."    He  would  explain  no  more. 

Since  the  battle  of  S ,  I  had  been  restless.    I  wanted 

to  be  back  there  again  and  this  work  was  to  me  like  talking 


118  THE  DAEK  FOKEST 

to  travellers  who  had  come  from  some  country  that  one  knew 
and  desired. 

In  the  early  morning,  when  the  light  was  so  cold  and  in- 
human, when  the  candles  stuck  in  bottles  on  the  window- 
sills  shivered  and  quavered  in  the  little  breeze,  when 
the  big  basin  on  the  floor  seemed  to  swell  ever  larger  and 
larger,  with  its  burden  of  bloody  rags  and  soiled  bandages 
and  filthy  fragments  of  dirty  clothes,  when  the  air  was 
weighted  down  with  the  smell  of  blood  and  human  flesh, 
when  the  sighs  and  groans  and  cries  kept  up  a  perpetual 
undercurrent  that  one  did  not  notice  and  yet  faltered  before, 
when  again  and  again  bodies,  torn  almost  in  half,  faces 
mangled  for  life,  hands  battered  into  pulp,  legs  hanging 
almost  by  a  thread,  rose  before  one,  passed  and  rose  again 
in  endless  procession,  then,  in  those  early  hours,  some  fan- 
tastic world  was  about  one.  The  poplar  trees  beyond  the 
window,  the  little  beechwood  on  the  hill,  the  pond  across 
the  road,  a  round  grey  sheet  of  ruffled  water,  these  things 
in  the  half-light  seemed  to  wait  for  our  defeat.  One  instant 
on  our  part  and  it  seemed  that  all  the  pain  and  torture  would 
rise  in  a  flood  and  overwhelm  one  ...  in  those  early  morn- 
ing hours  the  enemy  crept  very  close  indeed.  We  could 
almost  hear  his  hot  breath  behind  the  bars  of  our  fastened 
doors. 

There  was  a  peculiar  little  headache  that  I  have  felt 
nowhere  else,  before  or  since,  that  attacked  one  on  those 
early  mornings.  It  was  not  a  headache  that  afflicted  one 
with  definite  physical  pain.  It  was  like  a  cold  hand  press- 
ing upon  the  brow,  a  hand  that  touched  the  eyes,  the  nose, 
the  mouth,  then  remained,  a  chill  weight  upon  the  head; 
the  blood  seemed  to  stop  in  its  course,  one's  heart  beat  feebly, 
and  things  were  dim  before  one's  eyes.  One  was  stupid  and 
chose  one's  words  slowly,  looking  at  people  closely  to  see 


ISriKITIN  119 

whether  one  really  knew  them,  even  unsure  about  oneself, 
one's  history,  one's  future;  neither  hungry,  tired,  nor 
thirsty,  neither  sad  nor  joyful,  neither  excited  nor  dull, 
only  with  the  cold  hand  upon  one's  brow,  catching  (with 
troubled  breath)  the  beating  of  one's  heart. 

In  normal  times  the  night-duty  was  of  course  taken  in 
rotation,  but  during  the  pressure  of  these  four  days  we  had 
to  snatch  our  rest  when  we  might. 

About  midnight  on  the  fifth  day  the  procession  of 
wounded  suddenly  slackened,  and  by  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning  had  ceased  entirely.  The  two  nurses  went  to 
bed  leaving  ^N^ikitin,  myself,  and  some  sleepy  sanitars  alone. 
The  little  room  was  empty  of  all  wounded,  they  having  been 
removed  to  the  tent  on  the  farther  side  of  the  road.  The 
candles  had  sunk  deep  into  the  bottles  and  were  spluttering 
in  a  sea  of  grease.  The  room  smelt  abominably,  the  blood 
on  the  floor  had  trickled  in  thin  red  lines  into  the  cracks 
between  the  boards,  and  the  basins  with  the  soiled  bandages 
overflowed.  There  was  absolute  silence.  One  sanitar, 
asleep,  had  leaned,  still  standing,  over  a  chair,  and  his 
shadow  with  his  heavy  hanging  head  high  above  the  candle 
against  the  wall. 

Nikitin,  seeming  gigantic  in  the  failing  candle-light,  stood 
back  against  the  window.  He  did  not  keep,  as  did  Semyo- 
nov,  perfect  neatness.  A  night  of  work  left  him  with  his 
hair  on  end,  his  black  beard  rough  and  disordered;  his 
shirtsleeves  were  turned  up,  his  arms  stained  with  blood, 
and  in  his  white  apron  he  looked  like  some  kingly  butcher. 
I  was  tired,  the  cold  headache  was  upon  me.  I  wished 
that  I  could  go,  but  I  knew  that  both  he  and  I  must  stay 
until  eight  o'clock.  While  there  was  work  to  do  nothing 
mattered,  but  now  in  the  silence  the  whole  world  seemed 
as  empty  and  foul  as  a  drained  and  stinking  tub. 


120  THE  DAEK  FOEEST 

Nikitin  looked  at  me. 

"You're  tired,"  he  said. 

"'No,  I'm  not  tired,"  I  answered.  "I  shouldn't  sleep  if 
I  went  to  bed.  But  I've  got  a  headache  that  is  not  a  head- 
ache, I  smell  a  smell  that  isn't  a  smell,  I'm  going  to  be 
sick — and  yet  I'm  not  going  to  be  sick." 

"Come  outside,"  he  said,  "and  get  rid  of  this  air."  We 
went  out  and  sat  down  on  a  wooden  bench  that  bordered  the 
yard.    Before  us  was  the  highroad  that  ran  from  the  town 

of  S into  the  very  heart  of  the  Carpathians.     As    the 

cold  grey  faded  we  could  catch  the  thin  outline  of  those 
mountains,  faint,  like  pencil-lines  upon  the  sky  now  washed 
with  pink,  covered  in  their  nearer  reaches  by  thick  forests, 
insubstantial,  although  they  were  close  at  hand,  like  water 
or  long  clouds.  We  could  see  the  road,  white  and  clear  at 
our  feet,  melting  into  shadow  beyond  us,  and  catching  in 
the  little  misty  pools  the  coloured  reflection  of  the  morning 
sky. 

The  air  was  very  fresh ;  a  cock  behind  me  welcomed  the 
sun ;  the  cold  hand  withdrew  from  my  forehead. 

Nikitin  was  silent  and  I,  silent  also,  sat  there,  almost 
asleep,  happy  and  tranquil.  It  seemed  to  me  very  natural 
to  him  that  he  should  neither  move  nor  speak,  but  after  a 
time  he  began  to  talk.  I  had  in  that  early  morning  a 
strange  impression,  as  though  deep,  in  my  dreams  I  was 
listening  to  some  history.  I  know  that  I  did  not  sleep  and 
yet  even  now  as  I  recover  his  quiet  voice  and,  I  believe, 
many  of  his  very  words,  in  reminiscence  those  hours  are  still 
dreaming  hours.  I  know  that  every  word  that  he  told  me 
then  was  true  in  actual  fact.  And  yet  it  seems  to  me  that 
we  were  all  slumbering,  the  world  at  our  feet,  the  sun  in 
the  sky,  the  wounded  in  their  tent,  and  that  through  the 
mist  of  all  that  slumber  Nikitin's  voice,  soft,  measured, 


NIKITIN  121 

itself  like  an  echo  of  some  other  voice  miles  away,  pene- 
trated— but  to  my  heart  rather  than  to  my  brain.  After- 
wards this  was  all  strangely  parallel  in  my  mind  with  that 
earlier  conversation  that  I  had  had  with  Trenchard  in  the 
train.  .  .  .  And  now  as  I  sit  here,  in  so  different  a  place, 
amongst  men  so  different,  those  other  two  come  back  to  me, 
happy  ghosts.  Yes,  happy  I  know  that  one  at  least  of 
them  is! 

Like  water  behind  glass,  like  music  behind  a  screen,  Niki- 
tin's  voice  comes  back  to  me — dim  but  so  close,  mysterious 
but  so  intimate.  Ah,  the  questions  that  I  would  ask  him 
now  if  only  I  might  have  those  morning  hours  over  again ! 

"You're  a  solemn  man  altogether,  Durward.  Perhaps  all 
Englishmen  seem  so  to  us,  and  it  may  be  only  your  tran- 
quillity, so  unlite  our  moods  and  nerves  by  which  we  kill 
ourselves  dead  before  we're  half  way  through  life.  ...  I 
had  an  English  tutor  for  a  year  when  I  was  a  boy.  He 
didn't  teach  me  much:  'all  right'  and  'Tank  you'  is  the 
only  English  I've  kept,  but  I  think  of  him  now  as  the  very 
quietest  man  in  all  the  universe.  He  never  seemed  to 
breathe,  so  still  he  was.  And  how  I  admired  him  for  that ! 
My  father  was  a  very  excitable  man,  his  moods  and  tempers 
killed  him  when  he  was  just  over  forty.  .  .  .  We  have  a 
proverb,  'In  the  still  marshes  there  are  devils,'  and  we 
admire  and  fear  quiet  men  because  they  have  something  that 
we  have  not.  And  I  like  the  way  that  you  watch  us,  Dur- 
ward. Your  friend  Trenchard  does  not  watch  us  at  all 
and  one  could  be  his  friend.  For  you  one  has  quite  another 
feeling.  It  is  as  though  I  had  something  to  give  you  that 
you  really  want.  Why  should  I  not  give  it  you  ?  My  giv- 
ing it  will  do  me  no  harm,  it  may  even  yield  me  pleasure. 
You  will  not  throw  it  away.  You  are  an  Englishman  and 
will  not  for  a  moment's  temper  or  passion  reveal  secrets. 


122  THE  DARK  EOREST 

And  there  are  no  secrets.  Wtat  I  tell  you  you  may  tell 
the  world — ^but  I  warn  you  that  it  will  neither  interest  them 
nor  will  they  believe  it.  .  .  .  There  is,  you  see,  no  climax 
to  my  story.  I  have  no  story,  indeed ;  like  an  old  f  eldschar 
in  my  village  who  hates  our  village  Pope.  'Why,  Georg 
Georgevitch,'  I  say,  'do  you  hate  him?  He  is  a  worthy 
man.'  'Your  Honour,'  he  says,  'there  is  nothing  there;  a 
fat  man,  but  God  has  the  rest  of  him — I  hate  him  for  his 
emptiness.'  I'm  in  a  humour  to  talk.  I  have,  in  a  way, 
fulfilled  the  purpose  that  my  English  tutor  created  in  me. 
I've  grown  a  sort  of  quiet  skin,  you  know,  but  under  that 
skin  the  heart  pounds  away,  the  veins  swell  to  bursting.  I'm 
a  fool  behind  it  all — just  a  fool  as  every  Russian  is  a  fool 
with  more  in  hand  than  he  knows  how  to  deal  with.  You 
don't  understand  Russia,  do  you  ?  'No,  and  I  don't  and  no 
one  does.  But  we  can  all  talk  about  her — and  love  her  too, 
if  you  like,  although  our  sentiment's  a  bad  thing  in  us, 
some  say.  But  for  us  not  to  talk — for  one  of  us  to  be  silent 
— do  you  know  how  hard  that  is  ?  .  .  .  And  through  it  all 
how  I  despise  myself  for  wishing  to  tell  them !  What  busi- 
ness is  it  of  theirs  ?  Then  this  war.  Can  you  conceive  what 
it  is  doing  to  Russians?  If  you  have  loved  Russia  and 
dreamed  for  her  and  had  your  dreams  flung  again  and 
again  to  the  ground  and  trampled  on — and  now,  once  more, 
the  bubbles  are  in  the  sky,  glittering,  gleaming  ...  do  we 
not  have  to  speak,  do  you  think  ?  Must  it  not  be  hard,  when 
before  we  have  not  been  able  to  be  silent  about  women  and 
vodka,  to  be  silent  now  about  the  dearest  wish  of  our  heart  ? 
We  have  come  out  here,  all  of  us,  to  see  what  we  will  find. 
I  have  come  because  I  want  to  get  nearer  to  something — I 
had  brought  something  in  my  heart  about  which  I  had  learnt 
to  be  silent.  'That  is  enough!'  I  thought,  'there  can  be 
nothing  else  about  which  I  can  wish  to  talk ;  but  now,  sud- 


ISriKITIIT  123 

denly,  like  that  crucifix  on  the  hillock  by  the  road  that  the 
sun  has  just  touched,  there  is  something  more.  And  now 
here  we  are  nothing  .  .  .  two  souls  come  together  out  of 
space  for  an  hour  .  .  .  and  it  doesn't  matter  what  I  say 
to  you,  except  that  it's  true  and  the  truth  will  be  something 
for  you.  Here's  what  I've  come  to  the  war  with  .  .  .  my 
little  bit  of  possession,  if  you  like,  that  I've  brought  with 
me,  as  we've  all  brought  something.  Will  you  understand 
me?  Perhaps  not,  and  it  really  doesn't  matter.  I  know 
what  I  have,  what  I  want,  but  not  what  I  am.  So  how 
should  you  know  if  I  do  not  ?  And  I  love  life,  I  believe  in 
God.  I  wish  to  meet  Death.  One  can  be  serious  without 
being  absurd  at  an  early  hour  like  this,  when  nothing  is 
real  except  such  things.  .  .  .  Audrey  Vassilievitch  and 
myself  have  puzzled  you,  have  we  not?  I  have  seen  you 
watching  us  very  seriously,  as  though  we  were  figures  in  a 
novel,  and  that  has  amazed  me,  because  you  must  not  be 
solemn  about  us.  You'll  understand  nothing  about  Russian 
life  unless  you  laugh  at  it  during  at  least  half  the  week. 

"Almost  five  years  ago  I  met  Audrey  Vassilievitch  at  a 
friend's  house  in  Petrograd.  He  was  an  acquaintance  of 
mine  of  some  years'  duration,  but  I  had  avoided  him  be- 
cause he  seemed  to  me  the  last  kind  of  man  whom  I  would 
ever  care  to  know.  I  had  been  at  this  time  five  years  in 
Petrograd  and  had  now  a  good  practice  there  as  a  surgeon. 
I  was  a  successful  man  and  I  knew  it,  but  I  was  also  a 
disappointed  man  because  my  idealism,  that  was  being  for 
ever  wounded  by  my  own  actions,  would  not  die.  How  I 
wished  for  it  to  die !  I  thought  of  the  day  when  I  should 
be  without  it  as  the  day  of  liberation,  of  freedom.  That 
had  become  my  idea,  I  must  tell  you,  the  dominating  idea 
of  my  life:  that  I  should  kill  my  idealism,  laugh  at  the 
belief  in  God,  lose  faith  in  every  one  and  everything,  and 


124  THE  DARK  FOEEST 

then  simply  enjoy  myself — ^my  work  whicli  I  loved  and  my 
pleasure  which  I  should  love  when  my  idealism  had  died. 
.  .  .  Sometimes  during  those  years  I  thought  that  it  was 
dying.  Women  helped  to  kill  it,  I  believed,  and  I  knew 
many  women,  desperately  persistently  laughing  at  them, 
leaving  them  or  being  left  by  them;  and  then,  in  spite  of 
myself,  bitterly,  deeply  disappointed.  Something  always 
saying  to  me:  'I  am  God  and  you  cannot  hide  from  me.' 
'I  am  God  and  I  will  not  be  hidden.' 

"And  on  this  night,  about  five  years  ago,  at  the  house  of  a 
friend,  I  met  Audrey  Vassilievitch.  We  left  the  house  to- 
gether, and  because  it  was  a  fine  night,  walked  down  the 
ISTevski.  There  at  the  comer  of  the  Morskaia,  because  he 
was  a  nervous  man  who  wished  to  be  well  with  every  one 
in  the  world  and  because  he  had  nothing  especial  to  say, 
he  asked  me  to  dinner,  and  I,  because  it  was  a  fine  night 
and  there  had  been  good  wine,  said  that  I  would  go. 

"The  next  day  I  cursed  my  folly.  I  do  not  know  to  this 
day  why  I  did  not  break  the  engagement,  it  would  have  been 
sufficiently  easy,  but  break  it  I  did  nbt  and  a  week  later, 
reluctantly,  I  went.  Do  you  know  how  houses  and  streets 
of  which  you  have  observed  nothing,  afterwards,  called  out 
by  some  important  event,  leap  into  detail?  That  night  I 
swear  that  I  saw  nothing  of  that  little  street  behind  the 
Mariinsky  Theatre.  It  was  a  fine  'white  night'  at  the  end 
of  May  and  the  theatre  was  in  a  bustle  of  arrivals  because 
it  was  nearly  eight  o'clock.  !N^ot  at  all  the  hour  of  Russian 
dinner,  as  you  know,  but  Audrey  Vassilievitch  always  liked 
to  be  as  English  as  possible.  I  tell  you  that  I  saw  nothing 
of  the  street  and  yet  now  I  know  that  at  the  door  of  the 
little  trakteer  there  were  two  men  and  a  woman  laughing, 
that  an  isvotchih  was  drawn  up  in  front  of  a  high  white 
block  of  fiats,  asleep,  his  head  fallen  on  his  breast,  that  the 


NIKIXm  125 

wonderful  light,  faintly  blue  and  misty  like  gauze  hung 
down  from  the  sky,  down  over  the  houses,  but  falling  not 
quite  on  to  the  pavement  which  was  hard  and  ugly  and 
grey.  The  little  street  was  very  silent  and  quiet  and  had, 
like  so  many  Petrograd  streets,  a  decorous  intimacy  with 
the  eighteenth  century  ghosts  thronging  its  air.  .  .  . 

"Afterwards,  how  I  was  to  know  that  street,  every  stone 
and  comer  of  it!  It  seems  wonderful  to  me  now  that  I 
trod  its  pavement  that  night  so  carelessly.  My  destination 
was  a  square  little  house  at  the  corner  on  the  right.  Audrey 
Vassilievitch  boasted  a  whole  house  to  himself,  a  rare  pride 
in  our  city,  as  you  know.  When  I  was  inside  the  doors  I 
knew  at  once  that  it  was  not  Audrey  Vassilievitch's  house 
at  all.  Some  stronger  spirit  than  his  was  there.  Knowing 
him,  I  had  expected  to  find  there  many  modern  things, 
some  imitation  of  English  manners,  some  bad  but  expensive 
pictures,  a  gramophone,  a  pianolo,  a  library  of  Russian 
classics  in  our  hideous  modern  bindings,  a  billiard-room — 
you  know  the  character.  How  quiet  this  little  hoiise  was. 
In  the  little  square  hall  an  old  faded  carpet,  a  grandfather's 
clock  and  two  eighteenth  century  prints  of  Petrograd.  All 
the  rooms  were  square,  so  Russian  with  their  placid  family 
portraits,  their  old  tables  and  chairs,  not  beautiful  save  for 
their  fidelity,  and  old  thumbed  editions  of  Pushkin  and 
Gogol  and  Lermontov  in  the  bookshelves.  Clocks,  old  slow 
clocks,  all  telling  different  time,  all  over  the  house.  The 
house  was  very  neat,  but  in  odd  comers  there  were  all  those 
odd  family  things  that  Russians  collect,  china  of  the  worst 
period,  brass  trays,  large  candlesticks,  musical  boxes,  any- 
thing you  please.  Only  in  the  dining-room  there  was  some 
attempt  at  modernity.  Bad  modem  furniture,  on  the  walls 
bad  copies  of  such  things  as  Somoff's  'Bine  Lady,'  Vrubel's 
'Pan'  and  one  of  Benoit's  'Peter  the  Great'  water-colourg. 


126  THE  DAEK  FOREST 

Beyond  this  room  the  house  was  of  eighty  years  ago,  muffled 
in  its  old  furniture,  speaking  with  the  voice  of  its  old  clocks, 
scented  with  the  scent  of  its  musk  and  lavender,  watched 
by  the  contented  gaze  of  the  old  family  portraits. 

"Alexandra  Pavlovna,  Audrey  Vassiievitch's  wife,  was 
waiting  for  us.  Has  it  happened  to  you  yet  that  your  life 
that  has  been  such  and  such  a  life  is  in  the  moment  of  a 
heart-beat  all  another  life?  You  have  passed  an  examina- 
tion, you  are  suddenly  ill,  you  break  your  back  by  a  fall, 
or  more  simply  than  all  of  these,  you  enter  a  town,  see  a 
picture,  hear  a  bar  of  music.  .  .  .  The  thing's  done:  all 
values  changed:  what  you  saw  before  you  see  no  longer, 
what  you  needed  before  you  need  no  longer,  what  you 
expected  before  you  expect  no  longer.  .  .  .  Alexandra  Pav- 
lovna was  not  a  beautiful  woman.  I^ot  tall,  with  hair  quite 
grey,  eyes  not  dark  nor  light — sad  though.  When  she  smiled 
there  was  great  charm  but  so  it  is  true  of  many  women. 
Her  complexion  was  always  pale  and  her  voice,  although  it 
was  sweet  to  those  who  loved  her,  was  perhaps  too  quiet  to 
be  greatly  remarked  by  strangers.  I  have  known  men  who 
thought  her  an  ordinary  woman.  .  .  .  She  had  much 
humour  but  did  not  show  it  to  every  one.  She  was  as  still 
as  that  cloud  there  above  the  hill,  full  of  colour ;  like,  that  is, 
to  those  who  loved  her ;  seen  from  another  view,  as  perhaps 
that  cloud  may  be,  there  was  nothing  wonderful.  .  .  !Noth- 
ing  wonderful,  but  so  many  loved  her!  There  was  never, 
I  think,  a  woman  so  greatly  beloved.  And  you  may  judge 
by  me.  I  had  led  a  life  in  which  after  my.  work  women 
had  always  played  the  chief  part,  and  as  the  months  passed 
and  I  had  grown  proud  I  had  vowed  that  women  must  be 
exceptional  to  please  me.  I  had  felt  the  eye  of  the  world 
upon  me.  'You'll  see  no  ordinary  women  in  Victor  Leon- 
tievitch's  company'  I  heard  them  say,  and  I  was  proud  that 


NIKITIN  127 

they  should  say  it.  From  the  first  instant  of  seeing  Alex- 
andra Pavlovna  I  loved  her  and  I  loved  her  in  a  new,  an 
utterly  new  way.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  did  not 
think  of  myself  as  a  traveller  who,  passing  for  many  years 
through  countries  that  did  not  greatly  interest  him,  feels 
his  aches  and  pains,  his  money  troubles,  his  discomforts  and 
little  personal  irritations.  Then  suddenly  he  crosses  the 
border  and  the  new  land  so  possesses  him  that  he  is  only 
a  vessel  for  its  beauty,  to  absorb  it,  to  hold  it,  to  carry  the 
burden  of  it  in  safety.  ...  I  crossed  the  border.  For  four 
years  after  that  I  pursued  that  enchanted  journey.  Why 
did  I  love  her  ?  Who  can  say  ?  Audrey  Vassilievitch  adored 
her  with  an  utter  devotion  and  had  done  so  since  the  first 
moment  of  meeting  her.  I  have  known  many  others,  women 
and  men,  who  felt  that  devotion.  On  that  first  evening  we 
were  very  quiet — only  another  woman,  a  cousin  of  hers. 
After  dinner  I  had  half  an  hour's  talk  with  her.  I  can  see 
her — ah !  how  I  can  see  you,  my  dear ! — sitting  back  a  little 
in  her  chair,  resting,  her  hands  folded  very  quietly  in  her 
lap,  her  eyes  watching  me  gravely.  I  felt  like  a  boy  who 
has  come  into  the  world  for  the  first  time.  I  could  not  talk 
to  her — I  stammered  over  the  simplest  things.  But  I  was 
conscious  of  a  deep  luxurious  delight.  I  did  not,  as  I  had 
done  before,  lay  plans,  say  that  this-and-this  would  be  so  if 
I  did  this-and-this,  I  did  not  consciously  try  to  influence  or 
direct  her.  I  felt  no  definite  sensual  attraction,  did  not 
say,  as  I  had  always  done  with  other  women,  'It  is  the  hair, 
the  eyes,  the  mouth.'  If  I  thought  at  all  it  was  only  'This 
is  better  than  anything  that  I  have  known  before;  I  had 
never  dreamt  of  anything  like  this.' 

"After  I  had  left  her  that  night  I  did  not  walk  the  streets, 
nor  drink,  nor  find  companions.  I  went  home  and  slept 
Uie  soundest  sleep  of  my  life.    In  the  morning  I  knew  tran- 


128  THE  DARK  FOREST 

quillity  for  the  first  time  in  all  my  days.  I  did  not,  as  I 
had  done  after  many  earlier  first  meetings,  hasten  to  see 
my  friend.  I  did  not  know  even  that  she  liked  me  and  yet 
I  felt  no  doubt  nor  confusion.  It  was,  perhaps,  that  I  was 
ready  to  accept  this  new  influence  under  any  conditions, 
was  ready  for  once  to  leave  the  rules  to  another.  I  felt 
no  curiosity,  knew  no  determination  to  discover  the  condi- 
tions of  her  life  that  I  might  bend  them  to  my  own  purposes. 
I  was  quite  passive,  untroubled,  and  of  a  marvellous,  almost 
selfish  happiness. 

"Our  friendship  continued  very  easily.  It  soon  came  to 
our  meeting  every  day.  In  the  summer  they  moved  to  their 
house  in  Finland  and^  I  went  to  stay  with  them.  But  it 
was  not  until  her  return  to  Petrograd  in  September  that  I 
told  her  that  I  loved  her.  Upon  one  of  the  first  autumn 
days,  upon  an  evening,  when  the  little  green  tree  outside 
their  door  was  gold  and  there  was  a  slip  of  an  apricot  moon, 
when  the  first  fires  were  lighted  (Audrey  Vassilievitch  had 
English  fireplaces),  sitting  alone  together  in  her  little  faded 
old-fashioned  room,  I  told  her  that  I  loved  her.  She  listened 
very  quietly  as  I  talked,  her  eyes  on  my  face,  grave,  sad  per- 
haps, and  yet  humorous,  secure  in  her  own  settled  life  but 
sharing  also  in  the  life  of  others.  She  watched  me  rather 
as  a  mother  watches  her  child.  ...  I  told  her  that  it  mat- 
tered nothing  the  conditions  that  she  put  upon  me;  that  so 
long  as  I  saw  her  and  knew  that  she  believed  me  to  be  her 
friend  I  asked  for  nothing.  She  answered,  still  very  quietly 
but  putting  her  hand  on  mine,  that  she  had  loved  me  from 
the  first  moment  of  our  meeting.  That  she  wondered  that 
yet  once  again  love  should  have  come  into  her  life  when  she 
had  thought  that  that  was  all  finished  for  her.  She  told 
me  that  love  had  been  in  her  life  nothing  but  pain  and  dis- 
tress, and  then  she  asked  me,  very  simply,  whether  I  would 


NIKITIN  129 

try  to  keep  this  thing  so  that  it  should  be  happy  and  should 
endure.  I  said  that  I  would  obey  her  in  anything  that  she 
should  command.  .  .  .  There  followed  then  the  strangest 
life  for  me.  Lovers  in  the  fullest  sense  we  were  and  yet  it 
was  different  from  any  love  that  I  had  ever  known.  When 
I  ask  myself  why,  in  what,  it  differed  I  cannot  answer. 
Two  old  grey  middle-aged  people  who  happened  to  suit  one 
another.  .  .  .  !Not  romantic.  .  .  .  But  I  think  in  the  end 
of  it  all  the  reason  was  that  she  never  revealed  herself  to 
me  entirely.  I  was  always  curious  about  her,  always  felt 
that  other  people  knew  more  of  her  than  I  did,  always 
thought  that  one  day  I  should  know  all.  It  is  'knowing  all' 
that  kills  love,  and  I  never  knew  all.  We  were  always  to- 
gether. She  was  a  woman  of  very  remarkable  intelligence, 
loving  music,  literature,  painting,  with  a  most  excellently 
critical  love.  Her  friendship  with  me  gave  her,  I  do  believe, 
a  new  youth  and  happiness.  We  became  inseparable,  and 
all  my  earlier  life  had  passed  away  from  me  like  worn-out 
clothes.  I  was  happy — ^but  of  course  I  was  not  satisfied. 
I  was  jealous  of  that  which  Audrey  Vassilievitch  had — and 
I  lacked.  My  whole  ^l*itionship  to  Audrey  Vassilievitch 
was  a  curious  one.  My  friendship  for  his  wife  must  I  am 
sure  have  been  torture  to  him.  He  knew  that  she  had  given 
me  a  great  deal  that  she  had  never  given  to  him.  And  yet, 
because  he  loved  her  so  profoundly,  he  was  only  anxious 
that  she  should  be  happy.  He  saw  that  my  friendship  gave 
her  new  interests,  new  life  even.  He  encouraged  me,  then, 
in  every  way,  to  stay  with  them,  to  be  with  them.  He  left 
us  alone  continually.  During  the  whole  of  that  four  years 
he  never  once  spoke  in  anger  to  me  nor  challenged  my 
fidelity.  My  relationship  to  him  was  difficult.  We  were, 
quite  simply  as  men,  the  worst-suited  in  the  world.  He 
had  not  a  trick  nor  a  habit  that  did  not  get  on  my  nerves; 


130  THE  DARK  FOREST 

he  was  intelligent  only  in  those  things  that  I  despised  a  man 
for  knowing.  This  would  have  been  well  enough  had  he 
not  persisted  in  talking  about  matters  of  art  and  literature, 
of  which,  of  course,  he  knew  nothing.  He  did  it,  I  believe, 
to  please  his  wife  and  myself.  I  despised  him  for  many 
things  and  yet,  in  my  heart,  I  knew  that  he  had  much  that 
I  had  not.  He  was,  and  is,  a  finer  man  than  I.  .  .  .  And, 
last  and  first  of  all,  he  possessed  part  of  his  wife  that  I 
did  not.  After  all,  she  did,  in  her  own  beautiful  way,  love 
him.  She  was  a  mother  to  him;  she  laughed  tenderly  at 
his  foolishness,  cared  for  him,  watched  over  him,  defended 
him.  Me  she  would  never  need  to  defend.  Our  relation- 
ship was  built  rather  on  my  defence  of  her.  Sometimes  I 
would  wish  that  I  were  such  a  durah  as  Audrey  Yassilie- 
vitch,  that  I  might  have  her  protection.  .  .  .  There  were 
many,  many  times  when  I  hated  him — no  times  at  all  when 
he  did  not  irritate  me.  I  wished  ...  I  wished  ...  I  do 
not  know  what  I  wished.  Only  I  always  waited  for  the  time 
when  I  should  have  all  of  her,  when  I  should  hold  her 
against  all  the  world.  Then,  after  four  years  of  this  new 
life,  she  quite  suddenly  died.  Again  in  that  little  house, 
on  a  Vhite  night,'  just  as  when  I  had  at  first  met  her,  the 
purple  curtains  hanging  in  the  little  street,  the  isvostchik 
sleeping,  the  clocks  in  the  house  chattering  in  their  haste 
to  keep  up  with  time.  .  .  .  Only  two  months  before  the 
outbreak  of  the  war  she  caught  cold,  for  a  week  suffered 
from  pneumonia  and  died.  At  the  last  Audrey  Vassilie- 
vitch  and  I  were  alone  with  her.  He  had  her  hand  in  his 
but  her  last  cry  was  'Victor,'  and  as  she  died  I  felt  as 
though,  at  last,  after  that  long  waiting,  she  had  leapt  into 
my  arms  for  ever.  .  .  . 

"After  her  death  for  many  weeks,  she  was  with  me  more 
completely  than  she  had  been  during  her  lifetime.    I  knew 


NIKITIN  131 

that  she  was  dead,  but  I  thought  that  I  also  had  died.  I 
went  into  Finland  alone,  saw  no  one,  talked  to  no  one,  saw 
only  she.  Then  quite  suddenly  I  came  to  life  again.  She 
withdrew  from  me.  .  .  .  Work  seemed  the  only  possible 
thing;  but  I  was,  during  all  this  time,  happy  not  miserable. 
She  was  not  with  me,  but  she  was  not  very  far  away.  Then 
Audrey  Vassilievitch  came  back  to  me.  He  told  me  that 
he  knew  that  she  had  loved  me — that  he  had  tried  to  speak 
of  her  to  others  who  had  known  her,  but  they  had,  none  of 
them,  had  real  knowledge  of  her.  Might  he  speak  to  me 
sometimes  about  her? 

"I  found  that  though  he  irritated  me  more  than  ever  I 
liked  to  talk  about  her  to  him.  As  I  spoke  of  her  he  scarcely 
was  present  at  all  and  yet  he  had  known  her  and  loved  her, 
and  would  listen  for  ever  and  ever  if  I  wished. 

"When  the  war  had  lasted  some  months  the  fancy  came 
to  me  that  I  could  get  nearer  to  her  by  going  into  it.  I 
might  even  die,  which  would  be  best  of  all.  I  did  not  wish 
to  kill  myself  because  I  felt  that  to  be  a  coward's  death,  and 
in  such  a  way  I  thought  that  I  would  only  separate  myself 
from  her.  But  in  the  war,  perhaps,  I  might  meet  death  in 
such  a  way  as  to  show  him  that  I  despised  him  both  for 
myself  and  her.  By  suicide  I  would  be  paying  him  rev- 
erence. .  .  .  Some  such  thought  also  had  Audrey  Vassilie- 
vitch. I  heard  that  he  thought  of  attaching  himself  to 
some  Red  Cross  Otriad.  I  told  him  my  plans.  He  said 
no  more,  but  suddenly,  as  you  know,  I  found  him  on  the 
platform  of  the  Warsaw  station.  Afterwards  he  apologised 
to  me,  said  that  he  must  be  near  me,  that  he  would  try  not 
to  annoy  me,  that  if  sometimes  he  spoke  of  her  to  me  he 
hoped  that  I  would  not  mind.  .  .  .  And  I  ?  What  do  I 
feel  ?  I  do  not  know.  He  has  some  share  in  her  that  I 
have  not.    I  have  some  «hare  in  her  that  he  has  not,  and  I 


132  THE  DARK  FOEEST 

think  that  it  has  come  to  both  of  us  that  the  one  of  us  who 
dies  first  will  attain  her.  It  seems  to  me  now  that  she  is 
continually  with  me,  but  I  believe  that  this  is  nothing  to 
the  knowledge  I  shall  have  of  her  one  day.  Am  I  right  ?  Is 
Audrey  Vassilievitch  right  ?  Can  it  be  that  such  a  man — 
such  men,  I  should  say,  as  either  I  or  he — will  ever  be  given 
such  happiness?  I  do  not  know.  I  only  know  that  God 
exists — ^that  Love  is  more  powerful  than  man — that  Death 
can  fall  before  us  if  we  believe  that  it  will — ^that  the  soul 
of  man  is  Power  and  Love.  ...  I  believe  in  God  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  V 


FIEST  MOVE  TO  THE  ENEMY 


T  T  was  during  two  nights  in  the  forest  of  S ,  about 

•■•  which  I  must  afterwards  write,  that  I  had  those  long 
conversations  with  Trenchard,  upon  whose  evidence  now 
I  must  very  largely  depend.  Before  me  as  I  write  is  his 
Diary,  left  to  me  by  him.  In  this  whole  business  of  the 
war  there  is  nothing  more  diflScult  than  the  varied  and  con- 
fused succession  with  which  moods,  impressions,  fancies, 
succeed  one  upon  another,  but  Trenchard  told  me  so  simply 
and  yet  so  graphically  of  the  events  of  these  weeks  that  fol- 
lowed the  battle  of  S that  I  believe  I  am  departing  in 

no  way  from  the  truth  in  my  present  account,  the  truth, 
at  any  rate  as  he  himself  believed  it  to  be.  .  .  . 

The  only  impression  that  lie  brought  away  with  him  from 

the  battle  of  S was  that  picture,  lighted  by  the  horizon 

fires,  of  Marie  Ivanovna  kneeling  with  her  hand  on 
Semyonov's  shoulder.  That,  every  detail  and  colour  of  it, 
bit  into  his  brain. 

In  understanding  him  it  is  of  the  first  importance  to 
remember  that  this  was  the  one  and  only  love  business  of 
his  life.  The  effect  of  those  days  in  Petrograd  when  Marie 
Ivanovna  had  shown  him  that  she  liked  him,  the  thundering 
stupefying  effect  of  that  night  when  she  had  accepted  his 
love,  must  have  caught  his  soul  and  changed  it  as  glass  is 
caught  by  the  worker  and  blown  into  shape  and  colour. 
There  he  was,  fashioned  and  purified,  ready  for  her  use. 

133 


134  THE  DARK  FOREST 

What  would  she  make  of  him  ?  That  she  should  make  noth- 
ing of  him  at  all  was  as  incredible  to  him  as  that  there 
should  not  be,  somewhere  in  the  world,  Polchester  town  in 
Glebeshire  county. 

There  had  been  with  him,  I  think,  from  the  first  a  fear 
that  "it  was  all  too  good  to  be  true" — Timeo  Danaos  et  dona 
ferentes.  It  is  not  easy  for  any  man,  after  thirty  years' 
shy  shrinking  from  the  world,  to  shake  himself  free  of 
superstitions,  and  such  terrors  the  quiet  and  retired  Pol- 
chester had  bred  in  Trenchard's  heart  as  though  it  had  been 
the  very  epitome  of  life  at  its  lowest  and  vilest.  It  simply 
came  to  this,  that  he  refused  to  believe  that  Marie  Ivanovna 
had  been  given  to  him  only  to  be  taken  away  again.  About 
women  he  knew  simply  nothing  and  Russian  women  are  not 
the  least  complicated  of  their  sex.  About  Marie  Ivanovna 
he  of  course  knew  nothing  at  all. 

His  first  weeks  in  our  Otriad  had  been  like  the  painful 
return  to  drab  reality  after  a  splendid  dream.  "After  all 
I  am  the  hopeless  creature  I  thought  I  was.  What  was 
there,  in  those  days  in  Petrograd,  that  could  blind  me?" 
His  shyness  returned,  his  awkwardness,  his  mistakes  in  tact 
and  resource  were  upon  him  again  like  a  suit  of  badly  made 
clothes.  He  knew  this  but  he  believed  that  it  could  make 
no  difference  to  his  lady.  So  sure  was  he  of  himself  in 
regard  to  her — she  might  be  transformed  into  anything 
hideous  or  vile  and  still  now  he  would  love  her — ^that  he 
could  not  believe  that  she  would  change.  The  love  that 
had  come  to  them  was  surely  eternal — it  must  be,  it  must 
be,  it  must  be.  .  .  . 

He  failed  altogether  to  understand  her  youth,  her  inex- 
perience, above  all  her  coloured  romantic  fancy.  Her  ro- 
mantic fancy  had  made  him  in  her  eyes  for  a  brief  hour 
something  that  he  was  not.     After  a  month  at  the  war  I 


FIEST  MOVE  TO  THE  ENEMY  135 

believe  that  she  had  grown  into  a  woman.  She  had  loved 
him  for  an  instant  as  a  young  girl  loves  a  hero  of  a  novel. 
And  although  she  was  now  a  woman  she  must  still  keep  her 
romantic  fancy.  He  was  no  longer  part  of  that — only  a 
clumsy  man  at  whom  people  laughed.  She  must,  I  think, 
have  suffered  at  her  own  awakening,  for  she  was  honest,  im- 
petuous, pure,  if  ever  woman  was  those  things. 

He  did  not  see  her  as  she  was — he  still  clung  to  his  con- 
fidence; but  he  began  as  the  days  advanced  to  be  terribly 
afraid.  His  fears  centred  themselves  round  Semyonov. 
Semyonov  must  have  seemed  to  him  an  awful  figure,  power- 
ful, contemptuous,  all-conquering.  Any  blunders  that  he 
committed  were  doubled  by  Semyonov's  presence.  He  could 
do  nothing  right  if  Semyonov  were  there.  He  was  only  too 
ready  to  believe  that  Semyonov  knew  the  world  and  he  did 
not,  and  if  Semyonov  thought  him  a  fool — it  was  quite 
obvious  what  Semyonov  thought  him — then  a  fool  he  must 
be.  He  clung  desperately  to  the  hope  that  there  would  be 
a  battle — a  romantic  dramatic  battle — and  that  in  it  he 
would  most  gloriously  distinguish  himself.  He  believed 
that,  for  her  sake,  he  would  face  all  the  terrors  of  hell.  The 
battle  came  and  there  were  no  terrors  of  hell — only  sick 
headache,  noise,  men  desperately  wounded,  and,  once  again, 
his  own  clumsiness.  Then,  in  that  final  picture  of  Marie 
Ivanovna  and  Semyonov  he  saw  his  own  most  miserable 
exclusion. 

In  the  days  that  followed  there  was  much  work  and  he 
was  forgotten.  He  assisted  in  the  bandaging-room ;  in  later 
days  he  was  to  prove  most  efficient  and  capable,  but  at  first 
he  was  shy  and  nervous  and  Semyonov,  who  seemed  always 
to  be  present,  did  not  spare  him. 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  ^larie  Ivanovna  changed.  She  was 
kinder  to  him  than  she  had  ever  been,  yes,  kinder  than 


136  THE  DARK  FOREST 

during  those  early  days  in  Petrograd.  We  all  noticed  the 
change  in  her.  When  she  was  with  him  in  the  bandaging- 
room  she  whispered  advice  to  him,  helped  him  when  she  had 
a  free  moment,  laughed  with  him,  put  him,  of  course,  into 
a  heaven  of  delight.  How  happy  at  once  he  was!  His 
clumsiness  instantly  fell  away  from  him,  he  only  smiled 
when  Semyonov  sneered,  his  Russian  improved  in  a  re- 
markable manner.  She  was  tender  to  him  as  though  she 
were  much  older  than  he.  He  has  told  me  that,  in  spite 
of  his  joy,  that  tenderness  alarmed  him.  Also  when  he 
kissed  her  she  drew  back  a  little — and  she  did  not  reply 
when  he  spoke  of  their  marriage. 

But  for  four  days  he  was  happy!  He  used  to  sing 
to  himself  as  he  walked  about  the  house  in  a  high  cracked 
voice — one  song  /  did  hut  see  her  passing  by — another 
Early  one  morning — I  can  hear  him  now,  his  voice  break- 
ing always  on  the  high  notes. 

Early  one  morning 
Just  as  the  sun  was  rising 
I  heard  a  maid  singing 

In  the  valley  below: 
"Ah!  don't  deceive  me!    Pray  never  leave  me! 
How  could  you  treat  a  poor  maiden  so!" 

His  pockets  were  more  full  than  ever  of  knives  and  string 
and  buttons.  His  smile  when  he  was  happy  lightened  his 
face,  changing  the  lines  of  it,  making  it  if  not  handsome 
pleasant  and  friendly.  He  would  talk  to  himself  in 
English,  ruffling  his  hands  through  his  hair:  "And  then, 
at  three  o'clock  I  must  go  with  Audrey  Vassilievitch  .  .  ." 
or  "I  wonder  whether  she'll  mind  if  I  ask — "  He  had  a 
large  briar  pipe  at  which  he  puffed  furiously,  but  could  not 
smoke  without  an  endless  procession  of  matches  that  after- 
wards littered  the  floor  around  him.    "The  tobacco's  damp," 


FIRST  MOVE  TO  THE  ENEMY  137 

he  explained  to  us  a  hundred  times.  "It's  better 
damp.  .  .  ." 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  the  blow  fell. 

One  evening,  as  they  were  standing  alone  together  in  the 
yard  watching  the  yellow  sky  die  into  dusk,  without  any 
preparation,  she  spoke  to  him. 

"John,"  she  said,  "I  can't  marry  you." 

He  heard  her  as  though  she  had  spoken  to  another  man. 
It  was  as  though  he  said:  "Ah,  that  will  be  bad  news  for 
so-and-so." 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said,  and  instantly  afterwards 
his  heart  began  to  beat  like  a  raging  beast  and  his  knees 
trembled. 

"I  can't  marry  you,"  she  told  him,  "because  I  don't  love 
you.  Ah,  I've  known  it  a  long  time — ever  since  we  left 
Petrograd.  I've  often,  often  wanted  to  tell  you  .  .  .  I've 
been  afraid." 

"You  can't  marry  me?"  he  repeated.  "But  you 
must.  .  .  ."  Then  hurriedly:  "No,  I  shouldn't  say  that. 
You  must  forgive  me  .  .  .  you  have  confused  me." 

"I'm  very  unhappy  .  .  .  I've  been  unhappy  a  long  time. 
It  was  a  mistake  in  Petrograd.  I  don't  love  you — ^but  it  isn't 
only  that.  .  .  .  You  wouldn't  be  happy  with  me.  You 
think  now  .  .  .  but  it's  a  mistake." 

He  has  told  me  that  as  the  idea  worked  through  to  his 
brain  his  only  thought  was  that  he  must  keep  her  at  all 
costs,  under  any  conditions,  keep  her. 

"You  can't — you  mustn't,"  he  whispered,  staring  as 
though  he  would  hold  her  by  her  eyes.  "Don't  you  see  that 
you  mustn't  ?  What  am  I  to  do  after  all  this  ?  What  are 
we  both  to  do  ?  It's  breaking  everything.  I  shan't  believe 
in  anything  if  you  ...  Ah !  but  no,  you  don't  really  mean 
anything.  .  .  ." 


138  THE  DAEK  FOEEST 

He  saw  that  she  was  trembling  and  he  bent  forward,  put 
his  arm  very  gently  round  her  as  though  he  would  protect 
her. 

But  she  very  strongly  drew  away  from  him,  looked  him 
in  the  face,  then  dropped  her  eyes,  let  her  whole  body  droop 
as  though  she  were  most  bitterly  ashamed. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "what  I've  been  .  .  .  what 
I've  done.  During  these  last  weeks  I've  been  terrible  to 
myself — and  yet  it's  better  too.  I  didn't  live  a  real  life 
before,  and  now  I  see  things  as  they  are.  I  don't  love  you, 
John,  and  so  we  mustn't  marry." 

He  looked  at  her  and  then  suddenly  wild,  furious,  shout- 
ing at  her: 

"You  mustn't.  .  .  .  You  dare  not.  .  .  .  Then  go  if  you 
wish.  I  don't  want  you,  do  you  hear?  ...  I  don't  want 
...  I  don't  want  you !" 

She  turned  and  walked  swiftly  into  the  house.  He 
watched  her  go,  then  with  quick  stumbling  steps  hurried 
into  the  field  below  the  farm. 

There  he  stood,  thinking  of  nothing,  knowing  nothing, 
seeing  nothing.  The  dusk  came  up,  there  had  been  rain 
during  the  day,  the  mist  was  in  grey  sheets,  the  wet  dank 
smell  of  the  earth  and  of  the  vegetables  amongst  which  he 
stood  grew  stronger  as  the  light  faded.  He  thought  of 
nothing,  nothing  at  all.  He  felt  in  his  pocket  for  his  pipe, 
something  dropped — and  he  knelt  down  there  on  the  soak- 
ing ground,  searching.  He  searched  furiously,  raging  to 
himself  again  and  dgain :  "Oh !  I  must  find  it !  I  must  find 
it!  I  must  find  it!"  His  hands  tore  the  wet  vegetables, 
were  thick  with  the  soil.  Other  things  fell  from  his  pockets. 
Then  the  rain  began  to  descend  again,  thin  and  cold.  In 
some  building  he  could  hear  a  horse  moving,  stamping.  He 
pulled  up  the  vegetables  by  their  roots  in  his  search.    As 


FIRST  MOVE  TO  THE  ENEMY  139 

though  a  sword  had  struck  him  his  brain  was  clear.  He 
knew  of  his  loss.  He  flung  himself  on  the  ground,  rubbing 
the  wet  soil  on  to  his  face,  whispering  desperately:  "Oh 
God !— Oh  God !— Oh  God !" 

On  the  day  following  we  did  not  know  of  what  had  hap- 
pened. Trenchard  was  not  with  us,  as  he  was  sent  about 
midday  with  some  sanitars  to  bury  the  dead  in  a  wood  five 

miles  from  M .     That  must  have  been,  in  many  ways, 

the  most  terrible  day  of  his  life  and  during  it,  for  the  first 
time,  he  was  to  know  that  unreality  that  comes  to  every  one, 
sooner  or  later,  at  the  war.  It  is  an  unreality  that  is  the 
more  terrible  because  it  selects  from  reality  details  that 
cannot  be  denied,  selects  them  without  transformation, 
saying  to  his  victim :  "These  things  are  as  you  have  always 
seen  them,  therefore  this  world  is  as  you  have  always  seen 
it.  It  is  real,  I  tell  you."  Let  that  false  reality  be  ad- 
mitted and  there  is  no  more  peace. 

On  this  day  there  were  the  two  sanitars,  whose  faces  now 
he  knew,  walking  solidly  beside  his  cart,  there  were  the  little 
orchards  with  the  soldiers'  tents  sheltering  beneath  them, 
the  villages  with  the  old  men,  the  women,  the  children, 
watching,  like  ghosts,  their  passage,  the  fields  in  which  the 
summer  com  was  ripening,  the  first  trembling  heat  and 
beauty  of  a  quiet  day  in  early  June.  No  sound  in  the  world 
but  peace,  the  woods  opening  around  them  as  they  advanced. 
He  lay  back  on  his  bumping  cart,  watching  the  world  as 
though  he  was  seeing  pictures  of  some  place  where  he  had 
once  been  but  long  left.  Yes,  long  ago  he  had  left  it.  His 
world  was  now  a  narrow  burning  chamber,  in  which  dwelt 
with  him  a  taunting  jeering  torturing  spirit  of  reminiscence. 
He  saw  with  the  utmost  clearness  every  detail  of  his  rela- 
tionship with  Marie  Ivanovna.  He  had  no  doubt  at  all  that 
that  relationship  was  finally,  hopelessly  closed.     His  was 


140  THE  DARK  FOREST 

not  a  character  that  was  the  stronger  for  misfortune.  He 
submitted,  crushed  to  the  ground.  His  mind  now  dwelt 
upon  that  journey  from  Petrograd,  a  journey  of  incredible, 
ironic  ecstasy  lighted  with  the*  fires  of  the  wonderful  spring 
that  had  accompanied  it.  He  recalled  every  detail  of  his 
conversation  with  me,  His  confidence  that  life  would  now 
be  fine  for  him — how  could  life  ever  be  fine  for  a  man  who 
let  the  prizes,  the  treasures,  slip  from  his  fingers,  without 
an  attempt  to  clutch  them  ?  It  was  so  now  that  he  saw  the 
whole  of  the  affair — blame  of  Marie  Ivanovna  there  was 
none,  only  of  his  own  weakness,  his  imbecile,  idiotic  weak- 
ness. In  that  last  conversation  with  her  why  could  he  not 
have  said  that  he  refused  to  let  her  go,  held  to  her,  dominat- 
ed her,  as  a  strong  man  would  have  done  ?  No,  without  a 
word,  except  a  cry  of  impotent  childish  rage,  he  had  sub- 
mitted. .  .  .  So,  all  his  life  it  had  been — so,  all  his  life 
it  would  be. 

He  could  only  wonder  now  at  his  easy  ready  belief  that 
happiness  would  last  for  him.  Had  happiness  ever  lasted  ? 
As  a  man  began  so  he  ended.  Life  laughed  at  him  and 
would  always  laugh.  Nevertheless,  he  had  that  journey — 
five  days  of  perfect  unalloyed  delight.  Nobody  could  rob 
him  of  that.  She  had  said  to  him  that  even  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  journey  she  had  known  that  she  did  not  love 
him — she  had  known  but  he  had  not,  and  even  though  he 
had  cheated  himself  with  the  glittering  bubble  of  an  illu- 
sion the  splendour  had  been  there.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile  behind  his  despair  there  was  something  else 
stirring.  He  has  told  me  that  upon  that  afternoon  he  was 
only  very  dimly,  very  very  faintly  aware  of  it,  aware  of  it 
only  fiercely  to  deny  it.  He  knew,  however  stoutly  he  might 
refuse  to  acknowledge  it,  that  the  events  of  the  last  weeks 
had  bred  in  him  some  curiosity,  some  excitement  that  he 


FIRST  MOVE  TO  THE  ENEMY  141 

could  not  analyse.  He  would  like  to  have  thought  that  his 
life  began  and  ended  only  in  Marie  Ivanovna,  but  the  Bat- 
tle of  S had,  as  it  were  in  spite  of  himself,  left  some- 
thing more. 

He  found  that  he  recalled  the  details  of  that  battle  as 
though  his  taking  part  in  it  had  bound  him  to  something. 
Even  it  was  suggested  to  him  that  there  was  something  now 
that  he  must  do  outside  his  love  for  Marie  IvanoMia,  some- 
thing that  had  perhaps  no  connexion  with  her  at  all.  In 
the  very  heart  of  his  misery  he  was  conscious  that  a  little 
pulse  was  beating  that  was  strange  to  him,  foreign  to  him ; 
it  was  as  though  he  were  warned  that  he  had  embarked  upon 
some  voyage  that  must  be  carried  through  to  the  very  end. 
He  was,  in  truth,  less  completely  overwhelmed  by  his  catas- 
trophe than  he  knew. 

As  they  now  advanced  and  entered  upon  the  first  outworks 
of  the  Carpathians  the  day  clouded.  They  stumbled  down 
into  a  little  narrow  brown  valley  and  drove  there  by  the  side 
of  an  ugly  naked  stream,  wandering  sluggishly  through  mud 
and  weeds.  Over  them  the  woods,  grey  and  sullen,  had  com- 
pletely closed.  The  sun,  a  round  glazed  disk  sharply  de- 
fined but  without  colour,  was  like  a  dirty  plate  in  the  sky. 
Up  again  into  the  woods,  then  over  rough  cart  tracks,  they 
came  finally  to  a  standstill  amongst  thick  brushwood  and 
dripping  undergrowth. 

They  could  hear,  very  far  away,  the  noise  of  cannon.  The 
sanitars  were  inclined  to  grumble.  "Nice  sort  of  business, 
looking  for  dead  men  here,  your  Honour.  .  .  .  We  must 
leave  the  carts  here  and  go  on  foot.  What's  it  wet  for  ?  It 
hasn't  been  raining." 

Why  was  it  wet,  indeed?  A  heavy  brooding  inertia, 
Trenchard  has  told  me,  seemed  to  seize  them  all.  "They 
were  not  pleasant  trees,  you  know,"  I  remember  his  after- 


142  THE  DAEK  FOREST 

wards  telling  me,  "all  dirty  and  tangled,  and  we  all  looked 
dirty  too.  There  was  an  unpleasant  smell  in  the  air.  But 
that  afternoon  I  simply  didn't  care  about  anything,  nothing 
mattered."  I  don't  think  that  the  sanitars  at  that  time 
respected  Trenchard  very  greatly.  He  wasn't,  in  any  case, 
a  man  of  authority  and  his  broken  stammering  Russian 
wouldn't  help  him.  Then  there  is  nothing  stranger  than 
the  fashion  in  which  the  Russian  language  will  (if  you  are 
a  timid  foreigner) ,  of  a  sudden  wilfully  desert  you.  Be  bold 
with  it  and  it  may,  somewhat  haughtily,  perhaps,  consent 
to  your  use  of  it  ...  be  frightened  of  it  and  it  will  despise 
you  for  ever.  Upon  that  afternoon  it  deserted  Trenchard ; 
even  his  own  language  seemed  to  have  left  him.  His  brain 
was  cold  and  damp  like  the  woods  around  him. 

They  passed  through  the  thickets  and  came,  to  their  great 
surprise,  upon  a  trench  occupied  by  soldiers.  This  sur- 
prised them  because  they  had  heard  that  the  Austrians  were 
many  versts  distant.  The  soldiers  also  seemed  to  wonder. 
They  explained  their  mission  to  a  young  officer  who  seemed 
at  first  as  though  he  would  ask  them  something,  then  checked 
himself,  gave  them  permission  to  pass  through  and  watched 
them  with  grave  gaze.  After  they  had  crossed  the  barbed 
wire  the  woods  suddenly  closed  about  them  as  though  a  door 
had  been  softly  shut  behind  them.  The  ground  now 
squelched  beneath  their  feet,  the  sky  between  the  trees  was 
like  damp  blotting-paper,  and  the  smell  that  had  been  only 
faintly  in  the  air  before  was  now  heavy  around  them,  blown 
in  thick  gusts  as  the  wind  moved  through  the  trees.  Shrap- 
nel now  could  be  distinctly  heard  at  no  great  distance,  with 
its  hiss,  its  snap  of  sound,  and  sometimes  rifle-shots  like 
the  crack  of  a  ball  on  a  cricket  bat  broke  through  the 
thickets.  They  separated,  spreading  like  beaters  in  a  long 
line:     "Soon,"  Trenchard  told  me,  "I  was  quite  alone.    I 


FIEST  MOVE  TO  THE  ENEMY  143 

could  hear  sometimes  the  breaking  of  a  twig  or  a  stumbling 
footfall  but  I  might  have  been  alone  at  the  end  of  the  world. 
It  was  obvious  that  the  regimental  sanitars  had  been  there 
before  us  because  there  were  many  new  roughly  made 
graves.  There  were  letters  too  and  post  cards  lying  about 
all  heavy  with  wet  and  dirt.  I  picked  up  some  of  these — 
letters  from  lovers  and  sisters  and  brothers.  One  letter  I 
remember  in  a  large  baby-hand  from  a  boy  to  his  father 
telling  him  about  his  lessons  and  his  drill,  'because  he  would 
soon  be  a  soldier.'  One  letter,  too,  from  a  girl  to  her  lover 
saying  that  she  had  had  a  dream  and  knew  now  that  her 
'dear  Fram;,  whom  she  loved  with  all  her  soul,  would  return 
to  her  .  .  . !  I  am  quite  confident  now  that  we  shall  be 
happy  here  again  very  soon.  .  .  .'  In  such  a  place,  those 
words." 

As  he  walked  alone  there  he  felt,  as  I  had  felt  before  the 

battle  of  S ,  that  he  had  already  been  there.    He  knew 

those  trees,  that  smell,  that  heavy  overhanging  sky.  Then 
he  remembered,  as  I  had  remembered,  his  dream.  But 
whereas  that  dream  had  been  to  me  only  a  reflected  story, 
with  him  it  had  lasted  throughout  his  life.  He  knew  every 
step  of  that  first  advance  into  the  forest,  the  look  back  to 
the  long  dim  white  house  with  shadowy  figures  still  about 
it,  the  avenue  with  many  trees,  the  horses  and  dogs  down 
the  first  grey  path,  then  the  sudden  loneliness,  the  quiet 
broken  only  by  the  dripping  of  the  trees. 

Always  that  had  caught  him  by  the  throat  with  terror, 
and  now  to-day  he  was  caught  once  again.  He  was  watched : 
he  fancied  that  he  could  see  the  eyes  behind  the  thicket  and 
hear  the  rustling  movement  of  somebody.  To-day  he  could 
hear  nothing.  If  at  last  his  dream  was  to  be  fashioned  into 
reality  let  it  be  so.  Did  the  creature  wish  to  destroy  him, 
let  it  be  so.    He  had  no  strength,  no  hope,  no  desire.  ,  .  , 


144  THE  DARK  FOREST 

"It  was  there,"  he  told  me,  "when  I  scarcely  knew  what 
was  real  and  what  was  not,  that  I  saw  that  for  which  I  was 
searching.  I  noticed  first  the  dark  grey-blue  of  the  trousers, 
then  the  white  skull.  There  was  a  horrible  stench  in  the 
air.  I  called  and  the  sanitars  answered  me.  Then  I  looked 
at  it.  I  had  never  seen  a  dead  man  before.  This  man  had 
been  dead  for  about  a  fortnight,  I  suppose.  Its  grey-blue 
trousers  and  thick  boots  were  in  excellent  condition  and  a 
tin  spoon  and  some  papers  were  showing  out  of  the  top  of 
one  boot.  Its  face  was  a  grinning  skull  and  little  black 
animals  like  ants  were  climbing  in  and  out  of  the  mouth  and 
the  eye-sockets.  Its  jacket  was  in  good  condition,  its  arms 
were  flung  out  beyond  its  head.  I  felt  sick  and  the  whole 
place  was  so  damp  and  smelt  so  badly  that  it  must  have  been 
horribly  unhealthy.  The  sanitars  began  to  dig  a  grave. 
Those  who  were  not  working  smoked  cigarettes,  and  they 
all  stood  in  a  group  watching  the  body  with  a  solemn  and 
serious  interest.  One  of  them  made  a  little  wooden  cross 
out  of  some  twigs.  There  was  a  letter  just  beside  the  body 
which  they  brought  me.  It  began:  'Darling  Heinrich, — 
Your  last  letter  was  so  cheerful  that  I  have  quite  recovered 
from  my  depression.  It  may  not  be  so  long  now  before  .  .  .' 
and  so  on,  like  the  other  letters  that  I  had  read.  It  grinned 
at  lis  there  with  a  devilish  sarcasm,  but  its  trousers  and 
boots  were  pitiful  and  human.  The  men  finished  the  grave 
and  then,  with  their  feet,  turned  it  over.  As  it  rolled  a 
flood  of  bright  yellow  insects  swarmed  out  of  its  jacket, 
and  a  grey  liquid  trickled  out  of  the  skull.  The  last  I  saw 
of  it  was  the  gleam  of  the  tin  spoon  above  its  boot.  .  .  ." 

"We  searched  after  that,"  he  told  me,  "for  several  hours 
and  found  three  more  bodies.  They  were  Austrians,  in  the 
condition  of  the  first.  I  walked  in  a  dream  of  horror.  It 
was,  I  suppose,  a  bad  day  for  me  to  have  come  with  my 


FIRST  MOVE  TO  THE  El^EMY  145 

other  unhappiness  weighing  upon  me,  but  I  was,  in  some 
stupid  way,  altogether  unprepared  for  what  I  had  seen.  I 
had,  as  I  have  told  you,  thought  of  death  very  often  in  my 
life  but  I  had  never  thought  of  it  like  this.  I  did  not  now 
think  of  death  very  clearly  but  only  of  the  uselessness  of 
trying  to  bear  up  against  anything  when  that  was  all  one 
came  to  in  the  end.  I  felt  my  very  bones  crumble  and  my 
flesh  decay  on  my  body,  as  I  stood  there.  I  felt  as  though 
I  had  really  been  caught  at  last  after  a  silly  aimless  flight 
and  that  even  if  I  had  the  strength  or  cleverness  to  escape 
I  had  not  the  desire  to  try.  I  had  been  mocked  with  a 
week's  happiness  only  to  have  it  taken  from  me  for  my 
enemy's  ironic  enjoyment.  I  had  a  quite  definite  conscious- 
ness of  my  enemy.  I  had  as  a  boy  thought,  you  remember, 
of  my  uncle — ^and  now,  as  I  moved  through  the  wood,  I 
could  hear  the  old  man's  chuckle  just  as  he  had  chuckled 
in  the  old  days,  snapping  his  fingers  together  and  twitching 
his  nose.  .  .  ." 

They  searched  the  wood  until  late  in  the  afternoon, 
trampling  through  the  wet,  peering  through  thickets,  listen- 
ing for  one  another's  voices,  finding  sometimes  a  trophy  in 
the  shape  of  an  empty  shrapnel  case,  an  Austrian  cap  or 
dagger.  Then,  quite  suddenly,  a  sanitar  noticed  that  the 
bursting  of  the  shrapnel  was  much  closer  than  it  had  been 
during  the  early  afternoon.  It  was  now,  indeed,  very  near 
and  they  could  sometimes  see  the  flash  of  fire  between  the 
trees. 

"There's  something  strange  about  this,  your  Honour," 
said  one  of  the  sanitars  nervously,  and  they  all  looked  at 
Trenchard  as  though  it  were  his  fault  that  they  were  there. 
Then  close  behind  tbem,  with  a  snap  of  rage,  a  shrapnel 
broke  amongst  the  trees.  After  that  they  turned  for  home, 
without  a  word  to  one  another,  not  running  but  hastening 


146  THE  dark:  FOREST 

with  flushed  faces  as  though  some  one  were  behind  them. 

Thev  came  to  the  trench  and  to  their  surprise  found  it 
absolutely  deserted.  Then,  plunging  on,  they  arrived  at  the 
two  wagons,  climbed  on  to  one  of  them,  leaving  Trenchard 
alone  with  the  driver  on  the  other.  "I  tell  you,"  he  re- 
marked to  me  afterwards,  "I  sank  into  that  wagon  as 
though  into  my  grave.  I  don't  know  that  ever  before  or 
since  in  my  life  have  I  felt  such  exhaustion.  It  was  reac- 
tion, I  suppose — a  miserable,  wretched  exhaustion  that  left 
me  well  enough  aware  that  I  was  the  most  unhappy  of  men 
and  simply  forced  me,  without  a  protest,  to  accept  that 
condition.  Moreover,  I  had  always  before  me  the  vision  of 
the  dead  body.  Wherever  I  turned  there  it  was,  grinning 
at  me,  the  black  flies  crawling  in  and  out  of  its  jaws,  and 
behind  it  something  that  said  to  me:  'There!  now  I  have 
shown  you  what  I  can  do.  .  .  .  To  that  you're  com- 
ing.'  ..." 

He  must  have  slept  because  he  was  suddenly  conscious  of 
sitting  up  in  his  car,  surrounded  by  an  intense  stillness.  He 
looked  about  him  but  could  see  nothing  clearly,  as  though 
he  were  still  sleeping.  Then  he  was  aware  of  a  sanitar 
standing  below  the  cart,  looking  up  at  him  with  great  agita- 
tion and  saying  again  and  again:  "Borje  moi!  Borje  moi! 
Borje  moi!'' 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  rubbing  his  eyes.  The  sanitar 
then  seemed  to  slip  away  leaving  him  alone  with  a  vague 
sense  of  disaster.  The  sun  had  set,  but  there  was  a  moon, 
full  and  high,  and  now  by  its  light  he  could  see  that  his 

wagon  was  standing  outside  the  gate  of  the  house  at  M . 

There  was  the  yard,  the  bandaging-room,  the  long  faded 
wall  of  the  house,  the  bam,  but  where  ?  .  .  .  where  ?  .  .  . 
He  sat  up,  then  jumped  down  on  to  the  road.  The  big  white 
tent  on  the  further  side  of  the  yard,  the  tent  that  had,  that 


FIEST  MOVE  TO  THE  ENEMY  147 

very  morning,  been  full  of  wounded,  was  gone.  The  lines 
of  wagons,  horses  and  tents  that  had  filled  the  field  across 
the  road  were  gone.  No  voices  came  from  the  house — ■ 
somewhere  a  door  banged  persistently — other  sound  there 
was  none. 

The  sanitars  then  surrounded  him,  speaking  all  together, 
waving  their  arms,  their  faces  white  under  the  moon,  their 
eyes  large  and  frightened  like  the  eyes  of  little  children. 
He  tried  to  push  their  babel  off  from  him.  He  could  not 
understand.  .  .  .  Was  this  a  continuation  of  the  nightmare 
of  the  afternoon  ?  There  was  a  roar  just  behind  their  ears 
as  it  seemed.  They  saw  a  light  flash  upon  the  sky  and  fade, 
flash  again  and  fade.  With  their  faces  towards  the  horizon 
they  watched. 

"What  is  it?"  Trenchard  said  at  last.  There  advanced 
towards  him  then  from  out  of  the  empty  house  an  old  man 
in  a  wide  straw  hat  with  a  broouL 

"What  is  it?"  Trenchard  said  again. 

"It's  the  Austrians,"  said  the  old  man  in  Polish,  of  which 
Trenchard  understood  very  little.  "First  it's  the  Russians. 
.  .  .  Then  it's  the  Austrians.  .  .  .  Then  it's  the  Russians. 
.  .  .  Then  it's  the  Austrians.  And  always  between  each 
of  them  I  have  to  clean  things  up" — and  some  more  which 
Trenchard  did  not  understand.  The  old  man  then  stood  at 
his  gate  watching  them  with  a  gaze  serious,  sad,  reflective. 
Meanwhile  the  sanitars  had  discovered  one  of  our  own 
soldiers :  this  man,  who  had  been  sitting  under  a  hedge  and 
listening  to  the  Austrian  cannon  with  very  uncomfortable 
feelings,  told  them  of  the  affair.  At  three  o'clock  that 
afternoon  our  Otriad  had  been  informed  that  it  must  retreat 
"within  half  an  hour."  Not  only  our  own  Sixty-Fifth 
Division,  but  the  whole  of  the  Ninth  Army  was  retreating 
"within  half  an  hour."    Moreover  the  Austrians  were  ad- 


.148  THE  DAEK  FOREST 

vancing  "a  verst  a  minute."  By  four  o'clock  the  whole  of 
our  Otriad  had  disappeared,  leaving  only  this  soldier  to 

inform  us  that  we  must  move  on  at  once  to  T or  S , 

twenty  or  thirty  versts  distant. 

"Retreating!"  cried  Trenchard.  "But  we  were  winning! 
We'd  just  won  a  hattle !" 

"Tah  totchno  !"  said  the  soldier  gravely.  "Twenty  versts ! 
the  horses  won't  do  it,  your  Honour!" 

"They've  got  to  do  it !"  said  Trenchard  sharply,  and  the 
echo  of  the  Austrian  cannon,  again  as  it  seemed  quite  close 
at  hand,  emphasised  his  words.  Except  for  this  the  silence 
of  the  world  around  them  was  eerie;  only  far  away  they 
seemed  to  hear  the  persistent  rumble  of  carts  on  the  road. 

"They're  gone!  They're  all  gone!  We're  left  last  of 
all!"  and  "The  Austrians  advancing  a  verst  a  minute!" 

He  took  a  last  look  at  the  house  which  had  seemed  yes- 
terday so  absolutely  to  belong  to  them  and  now  was  already 
making  preparations  for  its  new  guests.  As  he  gazed  he 
thought  of  his  agony  in  that  field  below  the  house.  Only 
last  night  and  now  what  years  ago  it  seemed !  What  years, 
what  years  ago ! 

He  climbed  wearily  again  upon  his  wagon.  There  had 
entered  into  his  unhappiness  now  a  new  element.  This  was 
a  sensation  of  cold  despairing  anger  that  ground  should  be 
yielded  so  helplessly.  About  every  field,  every  hedge  and 
lane  and  tree,  as  slowly  they  jogged  along  he  felt  this.  Only 
to-day  this  com,  these  stones,  these  flowers  were  Russian, 
and  to-morrow  Austrian!  This,  as  it  seemed,  simply  out 
of  the  air,  dictated  by  some  whispering  devil  crouching 
behind  a  hedge,  afraid  to  appear!    This,  too,  when  only  a 

few  hours  ago  there  had  been  that  battle  of  S won  by 

them  after  a  struggle  of  many  days;  that  position,  soaked 


FIKST  MOVE  TO  THE  ENEMY  149 

with  Eussian  blood,  to  be  surrendered  now  as  a  leaf  blows 
in  the  wind. 

When  they  arrived  at  T and  found  our  Otriad  he 

was,  I  believe,  so  deeply  exhausted  that  he  was  not  conscious 
of  his  actions.  His  account  to  me  of  what  then  occurred 
is  fantastic  and  confused.  He  discovered,  apparently  the 
house  where  we  were;  it  was  then  one  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. Every  one  was  asleep.  There  seemed  to  be  no  place 
for  him  to  be,  he  could  find  neither  candles  nor  matches, 
and  he  wandered  out  into  the  road  again.  Then,  it  seems, 
he  was  standing  beside  a  deep  lake.  "I  can  remember  noth- 
ing clearly  except  that  the  lake  was  black  and  endless.  I 
stood  looking  at  it.  I  could  see  the  bodies  out  of  the  forest, 
only  now  they  were  slipping  along  the  water,  their  skulls 
white  and  gleaming.  I  had  also  a  confused  impression 
that  Russia  was  beaten  and  the  war  over.  And  that  for 
me  too  life  was  utterly  at  an  end.  ...  I  remember  that  I 
deliberately  thought  of  Marie  because  it  hurt  so  abominably. 
I  repeated  to  myself  the  incidents  of  the  night  before,  all 
of  them,  talking  aloud  to  myself.  I  decided  then  that  I 
would  drown  myself  in  the  lake.  It  seemed  the  only  thing 
to  do.  I  took  my  coat  off.  Then  sat  down  in  the  mud  and 
took  off  my  boots.  Why  I  did  this  I  don't  know.  I  looked 
at  the  water,  thought  that  it  would  be  cold,  but  that  it  would 
soon  be  over  because  I  couldn't  swim.  I  heard  the  frogs, 
looked  back  at  the  flickering  fires  amongst  our  wagons, 
then  walked  down  the  bank.  .  .  ." 

Nikitin  must  for  some  time  have  been  watching  him, 
because  at  that  moment  he  stepped  forward,  took  Trench- 
ard's  arm,  and  drew  him  back.  Nikitin  has  himself  told  me 
that  he  was  walking  up  and  down  the  road  that  night  because 
he  could  not  sleep.    When  he  spoke  to  Trenchard  the  man 


150  THE  DARK  FOREST 

seemed  dazed  and  bewildered,  said  something  about  "life 
being  all  over  for  him  and — death  being  horrible !" 

!N^ikitin  put  his  arm  round  him,  took  him  back  to  his 
room,  where  he  made  him  a  bed  on  the  floor,  gave  him  a 
sleeping-draught  and  watched  him  until  he  slept. 

That  was  the  true  beginning  of  the  friendship  between 
Nikitin  and  Trenchard. 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE   BETBEAT 


THE  retreat  struck  us  as  breathlessly  as  though  we  had 
been  whirled  by  a  wind-storm  into  midair  on  the  after- 
noon of  a  summer  day.  At  five  minutes  to  three  we  had 
been  sitting  round  the  table  in  the  garden  of  the  house  at 

M drinking  tea.    We  were,  I  remember,  very  gay.    We 

had  heard  only  the  day  before  of  the  Russian  surrender  of 
Przemysl  and  that  had  for  a  moment  depressed  us ;  but  as 
always  we  could  see  very  little  beyond  our  own  immediate 
Division.  Here,  on  our  own  Front,  we  had  at  last  cleared 
the  path  before  us.  On  that  very  afternoon  we  were  gaily 
anticipating  our  advance.  Even  Sister  K who,  for  reli- 
gious reasons,  took  always  a  gloomy  view  of  the  future,  was 
cheerful.  She  sipped  her  cherry  jam  and  smiled  upon  us. 
Anna  Petrovna,  imperturbably  sewing,  calmly  sighed  her 
satisfaction. 

"Perhaps  to-morrow  we  shall  move.  I  feel  like  it.  It 
will  be  splendid  to  go  through  the  Carpathians — beautiful 
scenery,  I  believe."     Molozov  was  absent  in  the  town  of 

B collecting   some   wagons   that   had   arrived    from 

Petrograd.  "He'll  be  back  to-night,  I  believe,"  said  Sister 
K — — .     "Dear  me,  what  a  pleasant  afternoon  1" 

It  was  then  that  I  saw  the  face  of  the  boy  Goga.  I  had 
turned,  smiling,  pleased  with  the  sunshine,  cherry  jam, 
and  a  good  Russian  cigarette  straight  from  Petrograd.  The 
boy  Goga  stared  across  the  yard  at  me,  his  round  red  cheeks 

161 


152  THE  DAEK  FOREST 

pale,  mouth,  open,  and  his  eyes  confused  and  unbelieving. 

He  seemed  then  to  jump  across  the  intervening  space. 
Then  he  screamed  at  us : 

"We're  retreating.  .  .  .  We're  retreating!"  he  shrieked 
in  the  high  trembling  voice  peculiar  to  agitated  Russians. 
"We  have  only  half  an  hour  and  the  Austrians  are  almost 
here  now !" 

We  were  flung  after  that  into  a  hurry  of  movement  that 
left  us  no  time  for  reasoning  or  argument.  Semyonov  ap- 
peared and  in  Molozov's  absence  took  the  lead.  He  was,  of 
course,  entirely  unmoved,  and  as  I  now  remember,  combed 
his  fair  beard  with  a  little  tortoiseshell  pocket  comb  as  he 
talked  to  us.  "Yes,  we  must  move  in  half  an  hour.  Very 
sad  .  .  .  the  whole  army  is  retreating.  Why,  God 
knows.  .  .  ." 

There  arose  clouds  of  dust  in  the  yard  where  we  had  had 
our  happy  luncheon.  The  tents  had  disappeared.  The 
wounded  were  once  more  lying  on  the  jolting  carts,  looking 
up  through  their  pain  and  distress  to  a  heaven  that  was  hot 
and  grey  and  indifferent.  An  old  man  whom  we  had  not 
seen  during  the  whole  of  our  stay  suddenly  appeared  from 
nowhere  with  a  long  broom  and  watched  us  complacently. 
We  had  our  own  private  property  to  pack.  As  I  pressed 
my  last  things  into  my  bag  I  turned  from  my  desolate  little 
tent,  looked  over  the  fields,  the  garden,  the  house,  the  bams. 
.  .  .  "But  it  was  ours — OURS,"  I  thought  passionately. 
We  had  but  just  now  won  a  desperately-fought  battle ;  across 
the  long  purple  misty  fields  the  bodies  of  those  fallen  Rus- 
sians seemed  to  rise  and  reproach  us.  "We  had  won  that 
land  for  you — and  now — ^like  this,  you  can  abandon  us !" 

At  that  moment  I  cursed  my  lameness  that  would  pre- 
vent me  from  ever  being  a  soldier.  How  poor,  on  that 
afternoon,  it  seemed  to  be  unable  to  defend  with  one's  own 


THE  KETREAT  153 

hand  those  fields,  those  rivers,  those  hills !  "Ah  hut  Russia, 
I  will  serve  you  faithfully  for  this !"  was  the  prayer  at  all 
our  hearts  that  afternoon.  .  .  . 

Semyonov  had  wisely  directed  our  little  procession  away 

from  the  main  road  to  O which  was  filled  now  with  the 

carts  and  wagons  of  our  Sixty-Fifth  Division.     We  were 

to  spend  the  night  at  the  small  village  of  T ,  twenty 

versts  distant ;  then,  to-morrow  morning,  to  arrive  at  O . 

The  carts  were  waiting  in  a  long  line  down  the  road, 
the  soldiers,  hot  and  dusty,  carried  bags  and  sacks  and  bun- 
dles. A  wounded  man  cried  suddenly :  "Oh,  Oh,  Oh,"  an 
ugly  mongrel  terrier  who  had  attached  himseK  to  our  Otriad 
tried  to  leap  up  at  him,  barking,  in  the  air.  There  was  a 
scent  of  hay  and  dust  and  flowers,  and,  very  faintly,  behind 
it  all,  came  the  soft  gentle  rumble  of  the  Austrian  cannon. 

Nikitin,  splendid  on  his  horse,  shouted  to  Semyonov: 

"What  of  Mr.?  Hadn't  some  one  better  go  to  meet 
him?" 

"I've  arranged  that!"  Semyonov  answered  shortly. 

It  was  of  course  my  fate  to  travel  in  the  ancient  black 
carriage  that  was  one  of  the  glories  of  our  Otriad,  with  Sis- 
ter Sofia  Antonovna,  the  Sister  with  the  small  red-rimmed 
eyes  of  whom  I  have  spoken  on  an  earlier  page.  She  was  a 
woman  who  found  in  every  arrangement  in  life,  whether 
made  by  God,  the  Germans,  or  the  General  of  our  Division, 
much  cause  for  complaint  and  dismay.  She  had  never 
been  pretty  but  had  always  felt  that  she  ought  to  be;  she 
was  stupid  but  comforted  herself  by  the  certain  assurance 
that  every  one  else  was  stupid  too.  She  had  come  to  the 
war  because  a  large  family  of  brothers  and  sisters  refused 
to  have  her  at  home.  I  disliked  her  very  much,  and  she 
hated  myself  and  Marie  Ivanovna  more  than  any  one  else 


154  '  THE  DARK  FOREST 

in  the  world.  I  don't  know  why  she  grouped  us  together — 
she  always  did. 

Marie  Ivanovna  was  sitting  with  us  now  in  the  carriage, 
white-faced  and  silent.  Sofia  Antonovna  was  very  patronis- 
ing. .  .  .  "When  you've  worked  a  little  more  at  the  Front, 
dear,  you'll  know  that  these  things  must  happen.  Bad 
work  somewhere,  of  course.  What  can  you  expect  from  a 
country  like  Russia?  Everything  mismanaged  .  .  .  noth- 
ing but  thieves  and  robbers.  Of  course  we're  beaten  and 
always  will  be." 

"How  can  you,  Sofia  Antonovna?"  Sister  Marie  inter- 
rupted in  a  low  trembling  voice.  "It  is  nobody's  fault.  It 
is  only  for  a  moment.  We  will  return — soon — at  once.  I 
know  it.  Ah,  we  miLst,  we  miist !  ,  .  .  and  your  courage  all 
goes.    Of  course  it  would." 

Sister  Sofia  Antonovna  smiled  and  her  eyes  watched  us 
both.  "I'm  afraid  your  Mr.  will  be  left  behind,"  she 
said. 

"Dr.  Semyonov,"  Marie  Ivanovna  began — ^then  stopped. 
We  were  all  of  us  silent  during  the  rest  of  the  journey. 

And  how  is  one  to  give  any  true  picture  of  the  confusion 

into  which  we  flung  ourselves  at  O ?    O had  been 

the  town  at  which,  a  little  more  than  a  month  ago,  we  had 
arrived  so  eagerly,  so  optimistically.  It  had  been  to  us  then 
the  quietest  retreat  in  the  world — irritating,  provoking  by 
reason  of  its  peace.  The  little  school-house,  the  green  well, 
the  orchard,  the  bees,  the  long  light  evenings  with  no  sound 
but  the  birds  and  running  water — those  things  had  been  a 
month  ago. 

We  were  hurled  now  into  a  world  of  dust  and  despair. 
The  square  market  place,  the  houses  that  huddled  round 
it  were  swallowed  up  by  soldiers,  horses,  carts  and  whirling 
clouds.    A  wind  blew  and  through  the  wind  a  hot  sun  blazed. 


THE  RETKEAT  155 

Everywhere  horses  were  neighing,  cows  and  sheep  were 
driven  in  thick  herds  through  columns  of  soldiers,  motor 
cars  frantically  pushed  their  way  from  place  to  place,  and 
always,  everywhere,  covering  every  inch  of  ground  flying, 
as  it  seemed,  from  the  air,  on  to  roofs,  in  and  out  of  win- 
dows, from  house  to  house,  from  comer  to  comer,  was  the 
humorous,  pathetic,  expectant,  matter-of-fact,  dreaming,; 
stolid  Russian  soldier.  He  was  to  come  to  me,  later  on, 
in  a  very  different  fashion,  but  on  this  dreadful  day  in 

O he  was  simply  part  of  the  intolerable,  depressing 

background. 

If  this  day  were  dreadful  to  me  what  must  it  have  been 
to  Trenchard !  We  were  none  of  us  aware  at  this  time  of 
what  had  happened  to  him  two  days  before,  nor  did  we 

know  of  his  adventure  of  yesterday.    O seemed  to  him, 

he  has  told  me,  like  hell. 

We  spent  the  day  gathered  together  in  a  large  white 

house  that  had  formerly  been  the  town-hall  of  O .    It 

had,  I  remember,  high  empty  rooms  all  gilt  and  looking- 
glasses;  the  windows  were  broken  and  the  dust  came,  in 
circles  and  twisting  spirals,  blowing  over  the  gilt  chairs  and 
wooden  floors. 

We  made  tea  and  sat  miserably  together.  Semyonov  was 
in  some  other  part  of  the  town.  We  were  to  wait  here  until 
Molozov  arrived  from  B . 

There  can  be  few  things  so  bad  as  the  sense  of  insecurity 
that  we  had  that  afternoon.  The  very  ground  seemed  to 
have  been  cut  away  from  under  our  feet.  We  had  gathered 
enough  from  the  officers  of  our  Division  to  know  that  some- 
thing very  disastrous  "somewhere"  had  occurred.  It  was 
the  very  vagueness  of  the  thing  that  terrified  us.  What 
could  have  happened?  Only  something  very  monstrous 
could  have  compelled  so  general  a  retirement.    We  might 


156  THE  DARK  FOREST 

all  of  us  be  prisoners  before  the  evening.  That  seemed 
to  us,  and  indeed  was  afterwards  proved  in  reality,  to  have 
been  no  slender  possibility.    There  was  no  spot  on  earth  that 

belonged  to  us.     So  firm  and  solid  we  had  been  at  M . 

Even  we  had  hung  pictures  on  the  walls  and  planted  flowers 
outside  the  dining-room.  IsTow  all  that  remained  for  us  was 
this  horrible  place  with  its  endless  looking-glasses,  its  bare 
gleaming  floors  and  the  intolerable  noise  through  its  open 
windows  of  carts,  soldiers,  horses,  the  smell  of  dung  and 
tobacco,  and  the  hot  air,  like  gas,  that  flung  the  dust  into 
our  faces. 

Beyond  the  vague  terrors  of  our  uncertainty  was  the 
figure,  seen  quite  clearly  by  all  of  us  without  any  sentiment, 
of  Russia.  Certainly  Trenchard  and  I  could  feel  with  less 
poignancy  the  appeal  of  her  presence,  and  yet  I  swear  that 
to  us  also  on  that  day  it  was  she  of  whom  we  were  thinking. 
We  had  been,  until  then,  her  allies ;  we  were  now  her  serv- 
ants. 

By  Russia  every  one  of  us,  sitting  in  that  huge  room, 
meant  something  different.  To  Goga  she  was  home,  a 
white  house  on  the  Volga,  tennis,  long  evenings,  early  morn- 
ings, holidays  in  a  tangled  wilderness  of  happiness.  To 
Sister  K she  was  "Holy  Russia,"  Russia  of  the  Krem- 
lin, of  the  Lavra,  of  a  million  ikons  in  a  million  little  streets, 
little  rooms,  little  churches.  To  Sister  Sofia  she  was  Petro- 
grad  with  cafes,  novels  by  such  writers  as  Verbitzkaia  and 
our  own  Jack  London,  the  cinematograph,  and  the  Islands 
on  a  fine  evening  in  May.  To  the  student  like  a  white  fish 
she  was  a  platform  for  frantic  speeches,  incipient  revolu- 
tions, little  untidy  hysterical  meetings  in  a  dirty  room  in  a 
back  street,  newspapers,  the  incapacities  of  the  Douma,  the 
robberies  and  villainies  of  the  Government.  To  Anna  Pe- 
trovna  she  was  comfortable,  unspeculative,  friendly  "home." 


THE  EETKEAT  157 

To  Nikitin  she  was  the  face  of  one  woman  upon  whose  eyes 
his  own  were  always  fixed.  To  Marie  Ivanovna  she  was  a 
flaming  glorious  wonder,  mystical,  transplendent,  revealed 
in  every  blade  of  grass,  every  flash  of  sun  across  the  sky, 
every  line  of  the  road,  the  top  of  every  hill. 

And  to  Trenchard  and  myself  ?  For  Trenchard  she  had, 
perhaps,  taken  to  herself  some  part  of  his  beloved  country. 
He  has  told  me — and  I  will  witness  in  myself  to  the  truth 
of  this — that  he  never  in  his  life  felt  more  bumingly  his 
love  for  England  than  at  this  first  moment  of  his  conscious- 
ness of  Russia.  The  lanes  and  sea  of  his  remembered  vision 
were  not  far  from  that  dirty,  disordered  town  in  Galicia — 
and  for  both  of  them  he  was  rendering  his  service. 

At  any  rate  there  we  sat,  huddled  together,  reflected  in 
the  countless  looking-glasses  as  a  helpless  miserable  "lot," 
falling  into  long  silences,  hoping  for  the  coming  of  Molozov 
with  later  news,  listening  to  the  confusion  in  the  street 
below.  Marie  Ivanovna  with  her  hands  behind  her  back 
and  her  head  up  walked,  nervously,  up  and  downf  the  long 
room.  Her  eyes  stared  beyond  us  and  the  place,  striving 
perhaps  to  find  some  reason  why  life  should  so  continually 
insist  on  being  a  different  thing  from  her  imaginings  of  it. 

Lighted  by  the  hot  sun,  blown  upon  by  the  dust,  her  figure, 
tall,  thin,  swaying  a  little  in  its  many  reflections,  had  the 
determined  valour  of  some  Joan  of  Arc.  But  Joan  of  Arc, 
I  thought  to  myself,  had  at  least  some  one  definite  against 
whom  to  wave  her  white  banner ;  we  were  fighting  dust  and 
the  sun. 

Trenchard  and  Nikitin  had  left  us  to  go  into  the  town  to 
search  for  news.  We  were  silent.  Suddenly  Marie 
Ivanovna,  turning  upon  us  all  as  though  she  hated  us,  cried 
fiercely ; 


158  .  THE  DAKK  FOEEST 

"I  think  you  should  know  that  Mr.  Trenchard  and  I  are 
no  longer  engaged." 

It  was  neither  the  time  nor  the  place  for  such  a  declara- 
tion. I  cannot  suggest  why  Marie  Ivanovna  spoke  unless 
it  were  that  she  felt  life  that  was  betraying  her  so  basely 
that  she,  herself,  at  least,  must  be  honest.  We  none  of  us 
knew  what  to  say.  What  could  we  say?  This  appalling 
day  had  sunk  for  us  all  individualities.  We  were  scarcely 
aware  of  one  another's  names  and  here  was  Marie  Ivanovna 
thrusting  all  these  personalities  upon  us.  Sister  Sofia's 
red-rimmed  eyes  glittered  with  pleasure  but  she  only  said : 

"Oh,  dear,  I'm  very  sorry."    Sister  K who  was  always 

without  tact  made  a  most  uncomfortable  remark:  "Poor 
Mr.!  .  .  ." 

That,  I  believe,  was  what  we  were  all  feeling.  I  had 
an  impulse  to  run  out  into  the  street,  find  Trenchard,  and 
make  him  comfortable.  I  felt  furiously  indignant  with 
the  girl.  We  all  looked  at  her,  I  suppose,  with  indignation, 
because  she  regarded  us  with  a  fierce,  insulting  smile,  then 
turned  her  back  upon  us  and  went  to  a  window. 

At  that  moment  Molozov  with  Trenchard,  Nikitin  and 
Semyonov,  entered.  I  have  said  earlier  in  this  book  that 
only  upon  one  occasion  have  I  seen  Molozov  utterly  over- 
come, a  defeated  man.  This  was  the  occasion  to  which  I 
refer.  He  stood  there  in  the  doorway,  under  a  vulgar  bevy 
of  gilt  and  crimson  cupids,  his  face  dull  paste  in  colour, 
his  hands  hanging  like  lead ;  he  looked  at  us  without  seeing 
us.  Semyonov  said  something  to  him :  "Why,  of  course," 
I  heard  him  reply,  "we've  got  to  get  out  as  quickly  as  we 
can.  .  .  .  That's  all." 

He  came  over  towards  us  and  we  were  all,  except  Marie 
Ivanovna,  desperately  frightened.  She  cried  to  him: 
"Well,  what's  the  truth  ?    How  bad  is  it  ?" 


THE  RETEEAT  159 

He  didn't  turn  to  her  but  answered  to  us  all. 

"It's  abominable — everywhere." 

I  know  that  then  the  great  feeling  of  us  all  was  that  we 
must  escape  from  the  horrible  place  in  some  way.     This 

beastly  town  of  O (once  cursed  by  us  for  its  gentle 

placidity)  was  responsible  for  the  whole  disaster ;  it  was  as 
though  we  said  to  ourselves,  "If  we  had  not  been  here  this 
would  not  have  happened." 

We  all  stood  up  as  though  we  felt  that  we  must  leave  at 
once,  and  while  we  stood  thus  there  was  a  report  that  shook 
the  floor  so  that  we  rocked  on  our  feet,  brought  a  shower 
of  dust  and  whitewash  from  the  walls,  cracked  the  one  re- 
maining pane  of  glass  and  drove  two  mice  scattering  with 
terror  wildly  across  the  floor.  The  noise  had  been  terrific. 
Our  very  hearts  stood  still.  The  Austrians  were  here  then. 
.  .  .  This  was  the  end.  .  .  . 

"It's  the  bridge,"  Semyonov  said  quietly,  and  of  course 
ironically.  "We've  blown  it  up.  There'll  be  the  other  in  a 
moment." 

There  was — a  second  shock  brought  down  more  dust  and 
a  large  scale  of  gilt  wood  from  one  of  the  cornices.  We 
waited  then  for  our  orders,  looking  down  from  the  windows 
on  to  what  seemed  a  perfect  babel  of  disorder  and  confusion. 

"We  must  be  at  X to-night,"  Molozov  told  us.    "The 

Staff  is  on  its  way  already.  We  should  be  moving  in  half 
an  hour." 

We  made  our  preparations. 

Trenchard,  meanwhile,  had  had  during  this  afternoon 
one  driving  compelling  impulse  beyond  all  others,  that  he 
must,  at  all  costs,  escape  all  personal  contact  with  Marie 
Ivanovna.  It  seemed  to  him  the  most  awful  thing  that 
could  possibly  happen  to  him  now  would  be  a  compulsory 
conversation  with  her.    He  did  not,  of  course,  know  that 


160  THE  DARK  FOREST 

she  had  spoken  to  us,  and  he  thought  that  it  would  be  the 
easiest  thing  in  all  the  confusion  that  this  retreat  involved 
that  he  should  be  flung  up  against  her.  He  sought  his  chief 
refuge  in  Kikitin.  I  am  aware  that  in  the  things  I  have 
said  of  Nikitin,  in  speaking  both  of  his  relation  to  Audrey 
Vassilievitch's  wife  and  to  Trenchard  himself,  I  have  shown 
him  as  something  of  a  sentimental  figure.  And  yet  senti- 
mental was  the  very  last  thing  that  he  really  was.  He  had 
not  the  "open-heartedness"  that  is  commonly  asserted  to 
be  the  chief  glory  and  the  chief  defect  of  the  Russian  soul. 
He  had  talked  to  me  because  I  was  a  foreigner  and  of  no 
importance  to  him — some  one  who  would  be  entirely  out- 
side his  life.  He  took  Trenchard  now  for  his  friend  I 
believe  because  he  really  was  attracted  by  the  admixture  of 
chivalry  and  helplessness,  of  simplicity  and  credulity,  of 
timidity  and  courage  that  the  man's  character  displayed. 
I  am  sure  that  had  it  been  I  who  had  been  in  Trenchard's 
position  he  would  not  have  stretched  out  one  finger  to 
help  me. 

Trenchard  himself  had  only  vague  memories  of  the  events 
of  the  preceding  evening.  He  was  aware  quite  simply 
that  the  whole  thing  had  been  a  horrible  dream  and  that 
"nothing  so  bad  could  ever  possibly  happen  to  him  again." 
He  had  "touched  the  worst,"  and  he  undoubtedly  found 
some  relief  to-day  in  the  general  distress  and  confusion.  It 
covered  his  personal  disaster  and  forced  him  to  forget  him- 
self in  other  persons'  misfortunes.  He  was,  as  it  happened, 
of  more  use  than  any  one  just  then  in  getting  every  one 

speedily  out  of  O .     He  ran  messages,  found  parcels 

and  bags  for  the  Sisters,  collected  sanitars,  even  discovered 
the  mongrel  terrier,  tied  a  string  to  him  and  gave  him  to 
one  of  our  soldiers  to  look  after.  In  what  a  confusion,  as 
the  evening  fell,  was  the  garden  of  our  large  white  house ! 


THE  EETREAT  161 

Huge  wagons  covered  its  lawn ;  horses,  neighing,  stamping, 
jumping,  were  dragged  and  pulled  and  threatened;  oflScers, 
from  stout  colonels  to  very  young  lieutenants,  came  cursing 
and  shouting,  first  this  way  and  that.  A  huge  bag  of  bis- 
cuits broke  away  from  a  provision  van  and  fell  scattering 
on  to  the  ground;  the  soldiers,  told  that  they  might  help 
themselves,  laughing  and  shouting  like  babies,  fell  upon  the 
store.  But  for  the  most  part  there  was  gloom,  gloom,  gloom 
under  the  evening  sky.  Sometimes  the  reflections  of  distant 
rockets  would  shudder  and  fade  across  the  pale  blue ;  inces- 
santly, from  every  comer  of  the  world,  came  the  screaming 
rattle  of  carts,  a  sound  like  many  pencils  drawn  across  a 
gigantic  slate — and  always  the  dust  rose  and  fell  in  webs 
and  curtains  of  filmy  gold,  under  the  evening  sun. 

At  last  Trenchard  found  himself  with  Molozov  and  Ivan 
Mihailovitch,  the  student  like  a  fish,  in  the  old  black  car- 
riage. Molozov  had  "flung  the  world  to  the  devil,"  Trench- 
ard afterwards  said,  "and  I  sat  there,  you  know,  looking  at 
his  white  face  and  wondering  what  I  ought  to  talk  about." 
Trenchard  suddenly  found  himself  narrowly  and  aggres- 
sively English — and  it  is  certain  that  every  Englishman  in 
Eussia  on  Tuesday  thanks  God  that  he  is  a  practical  man 
and  has  some  common  sense,  and  on  Wednesday  wonders 
whether  any  one  in  England  knows  the  true  value  of  any- 
thing at  all  and  is  ashamed  of  a  country  so  miserably  with- 
out a  passion  for  "ideas." 

To-night  Trenchard  was  an  Englishman.  He  had  been 
really  useful  at  O and  he  had  felt  a  new  spirit  of  kind- 
ness around  him.  He  did  not  know  that  Marie  Ivanovna 
had  made  her  declaration  to  us  and  that  we  were  therefore 
all  anxious  to  show  him  that  we  thought  that  he  had  been 
badly  treated.  Moreover  he  suspected,  with  a  true  English 
distrust  of  emotions,  that  the  Eussians  before  him  were 


162  THE  DAEK  FOEEST 

inclined  to  luxuriate  in  tlieir  gloom.  Molozov's  despair  and 
Ivan  Mihailovitch's  passionate  eyes  and  jerking  white  hands 
irritated  him. 

He  smiled  a  practical  English  smile  and  looked  about  him 
at  the  swaying  procession  of  carts  and  soldiers  with  a  prac- 
tical eye. 

"Come,"  he  said  to  Molozov,  "don't  despair.  There's 
nothing  really  to  be  distressed  about.  There  miist  be  these 
retreats,  you  know.  There  must  be.  The  great  thing  in 
this  war  is  to  see  the  whole  thing  in  proportion — ^the  whole 
thing.  France  and  England  and  the  Dardanelles  and  Italy 
— everything.    In  another  month  or  two " 

But  Molozov,  frowning,  shook  his  head. 

"This  country  ...  no  method  ...  no  system.  Noth- 
ing. It  is  terrible.  .  .  .  That's  a  pretty  girl!"  he  added 
moodily,  looking  at  a  group  of  peasants  in  a  doorway.  "A 
very  pretty  girl !"  he  added,  sitting  up  a  little  and  staring. 
Then  he  relapsed.     "No  system — nothing,''  he  murmured. 

"But  there  will  be,"  continued  Trenchard  in  his  English 
voice.  (He  told  me  afterwards  that  he  was  conscious  at 
the  time  of  a  horrible  priggish  superiority.)  "Here  in 
Russia  you  go  up  and  down  so.  You've  no  restraint.  Now 
if  you  had  discipline " 

But  he  was  interrupted  by  the  melancholy  figure  of  an 
officer  who  hung  on  to  our  slowly  moving  carriage,  walking 
beside  it  with  his  hand  on  the  door.  He  did  not  seem  to 
have  anything  very  much  to  say  but  looked  at  us  with  large 
melancholy  eyes.    He  was  small  and  needed  dusting. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Molozov,  saluting. 

"I've  had  contusion,"  said  the  little  officer  in  a  dreamy 
voice.  "Contusion  ...  I  don't  feel  very  well.  I  don't 
quite  know  where  I  ought  to  go." 


THE  KETKEAT  163 

"Our  doctors  are  just  behind,"  said  Molozov.  "You  can 
come  on  with  them." 

"Your  doctors  .  .  ."  the  little  oflBcer  repeated  dreamily. 
"Very  well.  .  .  ."    But  he  continued  with  us.     "I've  had 

contusion,"  he  said.     "At  M .     Yes.  .  .  .  And  now  I 

don't  quite  know  where  I  am.  I'm  very  depressed  and  un- 
happy.   What  do  you  advise  ?" 

"There  are  our  doctors,"  Molozov  repeated  rather  irri- 
tably.    "You'll  find  them  .  .  .  behind  there." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  the  melancholy  little  figure  repeated 
and  disappeared. 

In  some  way  this  figure  affected  Trenchard  very  dismally 
and  drove  all  his  English  common  sense  away.  We  were 
moving  now  slowly  through  clouds  of  dust,  and  peasants 
who  watched  us  from  their  doorways  with  a  cold  indiffer- 
ence that  was  worse  than  exultation. 

When  we  arrived,  at  two  or  three  in  the  morning,  at 

X ,  our  destination,  the  spirits  of  all  of  us  were  heavily 

weighted.  Tired,  cross,  dirty,  driven  and  pursued,  and  al- 
ways with  us  that  harassing  fear  that  we  had  now  no  ground 
upon  which  we  might  rest  our  feet,  that  nothing  in  the 
world  belonged  to  us,  that  we  were  fugitives  and  vaga- 
bonds by  the  will  of  God. 

As  our  carriage  stopped  before  the  door  of  the  large  white 

building  in  X that  seemed  just  like  the  large  white 

building  in  O^ — j  the  little  officer  was  again  at  our  side. 

"I've  got  contusion  .  .  ."  he  said.  "I'm  very  unhappy, 
and  I  don't  know  where  to  go." 

Trenchard  felt  now  as  though  in  another  moment  he 
would  tumble  back  again  into  his  nightmare  of  yesterday. 

The  house  at  X indeed  was  fantastic  enough.     I  feel 

that  I  am  in  danger  of  giving  too  many  descriptions  of  our 
various  halting-places.     For  the  most  part  they  largely  re- 


164  THE  DAKK  FOKEST 

sembled  one  another,  large  deserted  country  houses  with 
broken  windows,  bare  walls  and  floors,  a  tangled  garden 
and  a  tattered  collection  of  books  in  the  Polish  language. 
But  this  building  at  X was  like  no  other  of  our  asy- 
lums. 

It  was  a  huge  place,  a  strange  combination  of  the  local 
town-hall  and  the  local  theatre.  It  was  the  theatre  that  at 
that  early  hour  in  the  morning  seemed  to  our  weary  eyes 
so  fantastic.  As  we  peered  into  it  it  was  a  huge  place,  al- 
ready filled  with  wounded  and  lighted  only  by  candles,  stuck 
here  and  there  in  bottles.  I  could  see,  dimly,  the  stage  at 
the  back  of  the  room,  and  still  hanging,  tattered  and  rest- 
less in  the  draught,  a  forgotten  backcloth  of  some  old  play. 
I  could  see  that  it  was  a  picture  of  a  gay  scene  in  an  impos- 
sibly highly  coloured  town — ^high  marble  stairs  down  which 
flower-girls  with  swollen  legs  came  tripping  into  a  market- 
place filled  with  soldiers  and  their  lovers — "Carmen"  per- 
haps. It  seemed  absurd  enough  there  in  the  uncertain  can- 
dlelight with  the  wounded  groaning  and  crying  in  front 
of  it.  There  was  already  in  the  air  that  familiar  smell  of 
blood  and  iodine,  the  familiar  cries  of:  "Oh,  Sestritza — 
Oh,  Sestritza!"  the  familiar  patient  faces  of  the  soldiers, 
sitting  up,  waiting  for  their  turn,  the  familiar  sharp  voice 
of  the  sanitar :  "What  Division  ?  What  regiment  ?  bullet 
or  shrapnel  ?" 

I  remember  that  some  wounded  man,  in  high  fever,  was 
singing,  and  that  no  one  could  stop  him. 

"He's  dead,"  I  heard  Semyonov's  curt  voice  behind  me, 
and  turning  saw  them  cover  the  body  on  the  stretcher  with 
a  sheet. 

"Oh !  Oh  I  .  .  .  Oh !  Oh !"  shrieked  a  man  from  the  mid- 
dle of  whose  back  ITikitin,  probing  with  his  finger,  was 
extracting  a  bullet.     The  candles  flared,  the  ladies  from 


THE  EETREAT  165 

"Carmen"  wavered  on  the  marble  steps,  the  high  cracked 
voice  of  the  soldier  continued  its  song.  I  stood  there  with 
Trenchard  and  Andrey  Vassilievitch.  Then  we  turned 
away. 

"We're  not  wanted  to-night,"  I  said.  "We'd  better  get 
out  of  the  way  and  sleep  somewhere.  There'll  be  plenty 
to  do  to-morrow !"  Little  Audrey  Vassilievitch,  whom  dur- 
ing the  retreat  I  had  entirely  forgotten,  looked  very  pa- 
thetic. He  was  dusty  and  dirty  and  hated  his  discomfort. 
He  did  not  know  where  to  go  and  was  in  everybody's  way. 
Nikitin  was  immensely  busy  and  had  no  time  to  waste  on 
his  friend.    Poor  Audrey  was  tired  and  terribly  depressed. 

"What  I  say  is,"  he  confided  to  us  in  a  voice  that  trem- 
bled a  little,  "that  we  are  not  to  despair.  We  have  to  re- 
treat to-day,  but  who  knows  what  will  happen  to-morrow? 
Every  one  is  aware  that  Russia  is  a  glorious  country  and 
has  endless  resources.  Well  then.  .  .  .  What  I  say 
is  .  .  ." ;  an  officer  bundled  into  him,  apologised  but  quite 
obviously  cursed  him  for  being  in  the  way. 

"Come  along,"  said  Trenchard,  putting  his  arm  on  An- 
drey  Vassilievitch's  sleeve.  "We'll  find  somewhere  to  sleep. 
Of  course  we're  not  in  despair.  Why  should  we  be  ?  You'll 
feel  better  to-morrow." 

They  departed,  and  as  they  went  I  wondered  at  this 
new  side  in  Trenchard's  character.  He  seemed  strong, 
practical,  and  almost  cheerful.  I,  knowing  his  disaster,  was 
puzzled.  My  lame  leg  was  hurting  me  to-night.  I  found 
a  comer  to  lie  down  in,  rolled  myself  in  my  greatcoat  and 
passed  through  a  strange  succession  of  fantastic  dreams  in 
which  Trenchard,  Marie  Ivanovna,  Nikitin,  and  Semyonov 
all  figured.  Behind  them  I  seemed  to  hear  some  voice  cry- 
ing :  "I've  got  you  all !  .  .  .  I've  got  you  all !  .  .  .  You're 
caught  I  .  .  .  You're  caught  I  .  .  .  You're  caught  1" 


166  THE  DAEK  FOREST 

On  the  following  day  there  happened  to  Trenchard  the 
thing  that  he  had  dreaded.  Writing  of  it  now  I  cannot  dis- 
entangle it  from  the  circumstances  and  surroundings  of  his 
account  of  it  to  me.  He  was  looking  back  then,  when  he 
spoke  to  me,  to  something  that  seemed  almost  fantastic  in 
its  ironical  reality.  Every  word  of  that  conversation  he 
afterwards  recalled  to  himself  again  and  again.  As  to 
Marie  Ivanovna  I  think  that  he  never  even  began  to  under- 
stand her ;  that  he  should  believe  in  her  was  a  different  mat- 
ter from  his  understanding  her.  That  he  should  wor- 
ship her  was  a  tribute  both  to  his  inexperience  and  to  his 
sentiment.  But  his  relation  to  her  and  to  this  whole  adven- 
ture of  his  was  confused  and  complicated  by  the  fact  that  he 
was  not,  I  believe,  in  himself  a  sentimental  man.  What  one 
supposed  to  be  sentiment  was  a  quite  honest  and  naked  lack 
of  knowledge  of  the  world.  As  experience  came  to  him  sen- 
timent fell  away  from  him.  But  experience  was  never  to 
come  to  him  in  regard  to  Marie  Ivanovna ;  he  was  to  know 
as  little  of  her  at  the  end  as  he  had  known  at  the  begin- 
ning, and  this  whole  conversation  with  her  (of  course,  I 
have  only  his  report  of  it)  is  clouded  with  his  romantic 
conception  of  her.  To  that  I  might  add  also  my  own  ro- 
mantic conception ;  if  Trenchard  never  saw  her  clearly  be- 
cause he  loved  her,  I  never  saw  her  clearly  because — ^be- 
cause— why,  I  do  not  know.  .  .  .  She  was,  from  first  to 
last,  a  figure  of  romance,  irritating,  aggressive,  enchanting, 
baffling,  always  blinding,  to  all  of  us. 

During  the  morning  after  our  arrival  in  M Tren- 
chard worked  in  the  theatre,  bandaging  and  helping  with 
the  transport  of  the  wounded  up  the  high  and  difficult 
staircase.  Then  at  midday,  tired  with  the  heat,  the  close- 
ness of  the  place,  he  escaped  into  the  little  park  that  bor- 
dered the  farther  side  of  the  road.    It  was  a  burning  day 


THE  RETEEAT  167 

in  June — the  sun  came  beating  through  the  trees,  and  as 
soon  as  he  had  turned  the  comer  of  the  path  and  had  lost 
the  line  of  ruined  and  blackened  houses  to  his  right  he 
found  himself  in  the  wildest  and  most  glittering  of  little 
orchards.  The  grass  grew  here  to  a  great  height — the  ap- 
ple-trees were  of  a  fine  age,  and  the  sun  in  squares  and 
circles  and  stars  of  light  flashed  like  fire  through  the  thick 
green.  He  stepped  forward,  blinded  by  the  quivering  gold, 
and  walked  into  the  arms  of  Marie  Ivanovna.  He,  quite 
literally,  ran  against  her  and  put  his  arms  about  her  for  a 
moment  to  steady  her,  not  seeing  who  she  was. 

Then  he  gave  a  little  cry. 

She  was  also  frightened.  "It  was  the  only  time,"  he  told 
me,  "that  I  had  ever  seen  her  show  fear." 

They  were  silent,  neither  of  them  knowing  the  way  to 
speak. 

Then  she  said:  "John,  don't  r-run  away.  It  is  very 
good.    I  wanted  to  speak  to  you.    Here,  sit  down  here." 

She  herself  sat  down  and  patted  the  grass,  inviting  him. 
He  at  once  sat  down  beside  her,  but  he  could  say  nothing 
— nothing  at  all. 

She  waited  for  a  time  and  then,  seeing  him,  I  suppose,  at 
a  loss  and  helpless,  regained  her  own  courage.  "Are  you 
still  angry  with  me?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  not  looking  at  her. 

"You  have  a  right  to  be ;  I  behaved  very  badly." 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  replied,  "why  you  thought  in 
Petrograd  that  you  loved  me  and  then — so  soon — found 
that  you  did  not — so  soon." 

He  looked  at  her  and  then  lowered  his  eyes. 

"What  do  you  know  or  I  know  ?"  she  suddenly  asked  him 
impetuously.  "Are  we  not  both  always  thinking  that  things 
will  be  so  fine — seichasa — and  then  they  are  not.     How 


168  THE  DAKK  FOEEST 

could  we  be  happy  together  when  we  are  both  so  ignorant  ? 
Ah,  you  know,  John,  you  Tcnow  that  happy  together  we 
could  never  be." 

He  looked  at  her  clearly  and  without  hesitation. 

"I  was  very  stupid,"  he  said.  "I  thought  that  because 
I  had  come  into  a  big  thing  I  would  be  big  myself.  It  is 
not  so ;  I  am  the  same  person  as  I  was  in  England.  I  have 
not  changed  at  all  and  I  shall  never  change  .  .  .  only  in 
this  one  thing  that  whether  you  go  from  me  or  whether 
you  stay  I  shall  never  love  anybody  but  you.  All  men  say 
that,  I  know,"  he  added,  "but  there  are  not  many  men  who 
have  had  so  little  in  their  lives  as  I,  and  so  perhaps  it  means 
more  with  me  than  it  does  with  others." 

She  made  no  reply  to  him.  She  had  not,  I  believe,  heard 
him.  She  said,  as  though  she  were  speaking  to  herself: 
"If  we  had  not  come,  John,  if  we  had  stayed  in  Petro- 
grad,  anything  might  have  been.  But  here  there  is  some- 
thing more  than  people.  I  don't  know  whether  I  love  or 
hate  any  one.  I  cannot  marry  you  or  any  man  until  this 
is  all  over." 

"And  then,"  he  interrupted  passionately,  touching  her 
sleeve  with  his  hand.  "After  the  war?  Perhaps — again, 
you  will " 

She  took  his  hand  in  hers,  looking  at  him  as  though  she 
were  suddenly  seeing  him  for  the  first  time : 

"1^0 — you,  John,  never.  In  Petrograd  I  didn't  know 
what  this  could  be — ^no  idea — ^none.  And  now  that  I'm 
here  I  can  think  of  nothing  else  than  what  I'm  going  to 
find.  There  is  something  here  that  I'd  be  afraid  of  if  I  let 
myself  be  and  that's  what  I  love.  What  will  happen  when 
I  meet  it  ?  Shall  I  feel  fear  or  no  ?  And  so,  too,  if  there 
were  a  man  whom  I  feared.  .  .  ." 

"Semyonov!"  Trenchard  cried. 


THE  EETEEAT  169 

She  looked  at  him  and  did  not  answer.  He  canght  her 
hand  urgently.  "No,  Marie,  no — any  one  but  Semyonov. 
It  doesn't  matter  about  me.  But  you  must  be  happy — you 
mtist  be.  Nothing  else — and  he  won't  make  you.  He 
isn't " 

"Happy!"  she  answered  scornfully.  "I  don't  want  to 
be  happy.  That  isn't  it.  But  to  be  sure  that  one's  not 
afraid — "  (She  repeated  to  herself  several  times  Hrabrost 
— the  Russian  for  "bravery.")  "That  is  more  than  you, 
John,  or  than  I  or  than " 

She  broke  off,  looked  at  him  suddenly  as  he  told  me  "very 
tenderly  and  kindly  as  though  she  liked  me." 

"John,  I'm  your  friend.  I've  been  bad  to  you,  but  I'm 
your  friend.  I  don't  understand  why  I've  been  so  bad  to 
you  because,  I  would  be  fur-rious — ^yes,  fur-rious — if  any 
one  else  were  bad  to  you.  And  be  mine,  John,  whatever  I 
do,  be  mine.  I'm  not  really  a  bad  character — only  I  think 
it's  too  exciting  now,  here — everything — for  me  to  stop  and 
think." 

"You  know,"  he  answered  with  a  rather  tired  gesture 
(he  had  worked  in  that  hot  theatre  all  the  morning)  "that 
I  am  always  the  same — ^but  you  must  not  marry  Sem- 
yonov," he  added  fiercely. 

She  did  not  answer  him,  looked  up  at  the  sunlight  and 
said  after  a  time: 

"I  hate  Sister  K .    She  is  not  really  religious.    She 

doesn't  wash  either.  Let  us  go  back.  I  was  away,  I  said, 
only  for  a  little." 

They  walked  back,  he  told  me,  in  perfect  silence.  He  was 
more  unhappy  than  ever.  He  was  more  unhappy  because 
he  saw  quite  clearly  that  he  did  not  understand  her  at  all ; 
he  felt  farther  away  from  her  than  ever  and  loved  her  more 
devotedly  than  ever:  a  desperate  state  of  things.    If  he  had 


170  THE  DAEK  FOREST 

taken  that  sentence  of  hers — "I  think  it's  too  exciting — 
now — ^here — for  me  to  stop  and  think,"  he  would,  I  fancy, 
have  found  the  clue  to  her,  but  he  would  not  believe  that 
she  was  so  simple  as  that.  In  the  two  days  that  followed, 
days  of  the  greatest  discomfort,  disappointment  and  disor- 
der, his  mind  never  left  her  for  a  moment.  His  diary  for 
these  four  days  is  very  short  and  unromantic. 

"June  23rd,  In  X .  Morning  worked  in  the  the- 
atre. Bandaged  thirty.  Operation  1 — arm  amputated. 
Learn  that  there  has  been  a  battle  round  the  schoolhouse  at 

O ^where  we  first  were.     Wonderful  weather.     Spent 

some  time  in  the  park.     Talked  to  M.  there.     Evening 

moved — thirty  versts  to  P .     Much  dust,  very  slow, 

owing  to  the  Guards  retreating  at  same  time.  Was  with 
Durward  and  Audrey  Vassilievitch  in  a  Podvoda — ^Like 
the  latter,  but  he's  out  of  place  here.    Arrived  1.30. 

"June  2Ji.th.  Off  early  morning.  This  time  black  car- 
riage with  Sisters  K and  Anna  Petrovna.    More  dust 

— thousands  of  soldiers  passing  us,  singing  as  though  there 

were  no  retreat.    !N^ews  from  L very  bad.    Say  there's 

no  ammunition.  Arrived  Nijnieff  evening  7.30.  Very  hun- 
gry and  thirsty.  We  could  find  no  house  for  some  hours; 
a  charming  little  town  in  a  valley.  Nestor  seems  huge — 
very  beautiful  with  wooded  hills.  But  whole  place  so  swal- 
lowed in  dust  impossible  to  see  anything.  Heaps  of 
wounded  again.  I  and  Molozov  in  nice  room  alone.  Have 
not  seen  M.  all  day. 

"Juv£  25th.    This  morning  Nikitin,  Sister  K ,  Goga, 

and  I  attempted  to  get  back  to  P to  see  whether  there 

were  wounded.  Started  off  on  the  carts  but  when  we  got 
to  the  hill  above  the  village  met  the  -whole  of  our  Division 
coming  out.    The  village  abandoned,  so  back  we  had  to  go 


THE  RETKEAT  171 

again  through  all  the  dust.  Evening  nothing  doing.  Every 
one  depressed. 

"June  26th.  Very  early — half-past  five  in  the  morning 
— we  were  roused  and  had  to  take  part  in  an  exodus  like  the 
Israelites.  Most  unpleasant,  moving  an  inch  an  hour,  Cos- 
sacks riding  one  down  if  one  preferred  to  go  on  foot  to 
being  bumped  in  the  haycart.  Every  one  in  the  depths  of 
depression.  Crossed  the  Nestor,  a  perfectly  magnificent 
river.  Five  versts  further,  then  stopped  at  a  farmhouse, 
pitched  tents.  Instantly  hundreds  of  wounded.  Battle 
fierce  just  other  side  of  Nijnieff.  Worked  like  a  nigger — 
from  two  to  eight  never  stopped  bandaging.  About  ten 
went  off  to  the  position  with  Molozov.  Strange  to  be  back 
in  the  little  town  under  such  different  circumstances.  Dark 
as  pitch — raining.  Much  noise,  motors,  soldiers  like  ghosts 
though — shrapnel  all  the  time.  Tired,  depressed  and  ner- 
vous. Horrid  waiting  doing  nothing;  two  houses  under 
the  shrapnel.  Expected  also  at  every  moment  bridge  be- 
hind us  to  be  blown  up.  At  last  wagons  filled  with  wounded, 
started  back  and  got  home  eventually,  taking  two  hours 
over  it.    Very  glad  when  it  was  over.  .  .  ." 

We  had  arrived,  indeed,  although  we  did  not  then  know 
it  and  were  expecting,  every  moment,  to  move  back  again, 
at  the  conclusion  of  our  first  exodus.  Our  only  other  transi- 
tion, after  a  day  or  two  longer  at  our  farmhouse,  was  for- 
ward four  versts  to  a  tiny  village  on  a  high  hill  overlooking 
the  Nestor,  to  the  left  of  Nijnieff.  This  village  was  called 
Mittovo.  Mittovo  was  to  be  our  world  for  many  weeks  to 
come.  We  inhabited  once  again  the  large  white  deserted 
country-house  with  the  tangled  garden,  the  dusty  bare  floors, 
the  broken  windows.  At  the  end  of  the  tangled  garden 
there  was  a  white  stone  cross,  and  here  was  a  most  wonder- 
ful view,  the  high  hill  running  precipitously  down  to  the 


172  THE  DARK  FOREST 

flat  silver  expanse  of  the  ^Nestor  that  ran  like  a  gleaming 
girdle  under  the  breasts  of  the  slopes  beyond.  These  fur- 
ther slopes  were  clothed  with  wood.  I  remember,  on  the 
first  day  that  I  watched,  the  forest  beyond  was  black  and 
dense  like  a  cloud  resting  on  the  hill;  the  Nestor  and  our 
own  country  was  soaked  with  sun. 

"That's  a  fine  forest,"  I  said  to  my  companion. 

"Yes,  the  forest  of  S ,  stretches  miles  back  into  Ga- 

licia."  It  was  Nikitin  that  day  who  spoke  to  me.  We 
turned  carelessly  away.  Meanwhile  how  difficult  and  un- 
pleasant those  first  weeks  at  Mittovo  were!  We  had  none 
of  us  realised,  I  suppose,  how  sternly  those  days  of  retreat 
had  tested  our  nerves.  We  had  been  not  only  retreating, 
but  (at  the  same  time)  working  fiercely,  and  now,  when  for 
some  while  the  work  slackened  and,  under  the  hot  blazing 
sun,  we  found  nothing  for  our  hands  to  do,  a  grinding  irri- 
table reaction  settled  down  upon  us. 

I  had  known  in  my  earlier  experience  at  the  war  the 
troubles  that  inevitably  rise  from  inaction;  the  little  per- 
sonal inconveniences,  the  tyrannies  of  habits  and  manners 
and  appearances,  when  you've  got  nothing  to  do  but  sit  and 
watch  your  immediate  neighbour.  But  on  that  earlier  oc- 
casion our  army  had  been  successful;  it  seemed  that  the 
war  would  soon  find  its  conclusion  in  the  collapse  of  Ger- 
many, and  good  news  from  Europe  smiled  upon  us  every 
morning  at  breakfast.  Now  we  were  tired  and  over- 
wrought. Good  news  there  was  none — indeed  every  day 
brought  disastrous  tidings.  We,  ourselves,  must  look  back 
upon  a  hundred  versts  of  fair  smiling  country  that  we  had 
conquered  with  the  sacrifice  of  many  thousands  of  lives  and 
surrendered  without  the  giving  of  a  blow.  And  always  the 
force  that  compelled  us  to  this  was  sinister  and  ironical  by 
its  invisibility. 


THE  RETKEAT  173 

It  was  the  Russian  temperament  to  declare  exactly  what 
it  felt,  to  give  free  rein  to  its  moods  and  dislikes  and  dis- 
comforts. The  weather  was  beginning  to  be  fiercely  hot, 
there  were  many  rumours  of  cholera  and  typhus — we,  all 
of  us,  lost  colour  and  appetite,  slept  badly  and  suffered 
from  sudden  headaches. 

Three  days  after  our  arrival  at  Mittovo  we  had  all  dis- 
covered private  hostilities  and  resentments.  I  was  as  bad 
as  any  one.  I  could  not  endure  the  revolutionary  student, 
Ivan  Mihailovitch.  I  thought  him  most  uncleanly  in  his 
habits,  and  I  was  compelled  to  sleep  in  the  same  room  with 
him.  Certainly  it  was  true  that  washing  was  not  one  of 
the  most  important  things  in  the  world  to  him.  In  the 
morning  he  would  lurch  out  of  bed,  put  on  a  soiled  shirt 
and  trousers,  dab  his  face  with  a  decrepit  sponge,  take  a 
tiny  piece  of  soap  from  an  old  tin  box,  look  at  it,  rub  it  on 
his  fingers  and  put  it  hurriedly  away  again  as  though  he 
were  ashamed  of  it.  Sometimes,  getting  out  of  bed,  he 
would  cry:  "Have  you  heard  the  latest  scandal?  About 
the  ammunition  in  the  Tenth  Army!  They  say — "  and 
then  he  would  forget  his  washing  altogether.  He  did  not 
shave  his  head,  as  most  of  us  had  done,  but  allowed  his  hair 
to  grow  very  long,  and  this,  of  course,  was  often  a  subject 
of  irritation  to  him.  He  had  also  a  habit  of  sitting  on  his 
bed  in  his  nightclothes,  yawning  and  scratching  his  body  all 
over,  very  slowly,  with  his  long  (and  I'm  afraid  dirty) 
finger-nails,  for  the  space,  perhaps,  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
This  I  found  difficult  to  endure.  His  long  white  face  was 
always  a  dirty  shade  of  grey  and  his  jacket  was  stained 
with  reminiscences  of  his  meals.  His  habits  at  table  were 
terrible ;  he  was  always  so  deeply  interested  in  what  he  was 
saying  that  he  had  not  time  to  close  his  mouth  whilst  he 
was  eating,  to  ask  people  to  pass  him  food  (he  stretched 


174  THE  DARK  FOREST 

his  long  dirty  hand  across  the  table)  or  to  pass  food  to  oth- 
ers. He  shouted  a  great  deal  and  was  in  a  furious  passion 
every  five  minutes.  I  also  just  at  this  time  found  the  boy 
Goga  tiresome ;  the  boy  had  not  been  taught  by  his  parents 
the  duty  that  children  owe  to  their  elders  and  I  am  inclined 
to  believe  that  this  duty  is  almost  universally  untaught  in 
Russia.  To  Goga  a  General  was  as  nothing,  he  would  con- 
tradict our  old  white-haired  General  T ,  when  he  came 

to  dine  with  us,  would  patronise  the  Colonel  and  assure 
the  General's  aide-de-camp  that  he  knew  better.  He  would 
advance  his  father  as  a  perpetual  and  faithful  witness  to 
the  truth  of  his  statements.  "You  may  say  what  you  like," 
he  would  cry  to  myself  or  a  Sister,  "but  my  father  knows 
better  than  you  do.  He  has  the  front  seat  in  the  Moscow 
Opera  all  through  the  season  and  has  been  to  England  three 
times."  Goga  also  had  been  once  to  England  for  a  week 
(spent  entirely  on  the  Brighton  Pier)  and  he  told  me  many 
things.  He  would  forget,  for  a  moment,  that  I  was  an  Eng- 
lishman and  would  assure  me  that  he  knew  better  than  I 
did.  He  was  a  being  with  the  best  heart  in  the  world,  but 
his  parents  loved  him  so  much  that  they  had  neglected  his 
education. 

These  things  may  seem  trifling  enough,  but  they  had, 
nevertheless,  their  importance.     Among  the  Sisters,  Sister 

K was  the  unpopular  one.     I  myself  must  honestly 

confess  that  she  was  a  woman  ill-suited  to  company  less         J 
worthy  than  herself.     She  had  an  upright  virtuous  charac-  ' 

ter  but  she  was  narrow  (a  rare  fault  in  a  Russian),  super- 
stitious, dogmatically  religious,  and  entirely  without  tact. 
She  quite  honestly  thought  us  a  poor  lot  and  would  say  to 
me:  "I  hope,  Mr.  Durward,  you  don't  judge  Russia  by 
the  specimens  you  find  here,"  and  was,  of  course,  always 
overheard.    She  was  a  strict  moralist,  but  was  also  generous 


THE  RETREAT  175 

with  all  the  warmth  of  Russian  generosity  in  money  mat- 
ters. She  was  a  marvellous  hard  worker,  quite  fearless,  ac- 
curate, and  punctual  in  all  things.  She  fought  incessant 
battles  with  Anna  Petrovna  who  hated  her  as  warmly  as  it 
was  in  her  quiet,  unruffled  heart  to  hate  any  one.  The 
only  thing  stranger  than  the  fierceness  of  their  quarrels  was 
the  suddenness  of  their  conclusion.  I  remember  that  at 
dinner  one  day  they  fought  a  battle  over  the  question  of  a 
clean  towel  with  a  heat  and  vigour  that  was  Homeric.  A 
quarter  of  an  hour  later  I  found  them  quietly  talking  to- 
gether.   Anna  Petrovna  was  showing  Sister  K a  large 

and  hideous  photograph  of  her  children. 

"How  sympathetic !    How  beautiful !"  said  Sister  K . 

"But  I  thought  you  hated  her?"  I  said  afterwards  in 
confusion  to  Anna  Petrovna. 

"She  was  very  sympathetic  about  my  children,"  said 
Anna  Petrovna  placidly. 

Then,  of  course,  Sister  Sofia  Antonovna,  the  sister  with 
the  red  eyes,  made  trouble  when  she  could.  She  was,  as 
I  discovered  afterwards,  a  bitterly  disappointed  woman, 
having  been  deserted  by  her  fiance  only  a  week  before  her 
marriage.  That  had  happened  three  years  ago  and  she  still 
loved  him,  so  that  she  had  her  excuse  for  her  view  of  the 
world.  My  friends  seemed  to  me,  during  those  first  weeks 
at  Mittovo,  simply  a  company  of  good-hearted,  ill-disci- 
plined children.  I  had  gone  directly  back  to  my  days  in 
the  nursery.  Restraint  of  any  kind  there  was  none,  dis- 
cipline as  to  time  or  emotions  was  undreamed  of,  and  with 
it  all  a  vitality,  a  warmth  of  heart,  a  sincerity  and  honesty 
that  made  that  Otriad,  perhaps,  the  most  lovable  company 
I  have  ever  known.  Russians  are  fond  of  sneering  at  them- 
selves; for  him  who  declares  that  he  likes  Russia  and  Rus- 
sians they  have  either  polite  disbelief  or  gentle  contempt. 


176  THE  DAKK  FOEEST 

In  England  we  have  qualities  of  endurance,  of  reliability, 
of  solidity,  to  which,  often  enough,  I  long  to  return — but 
that  warmth  of  heart  that  I  have  known  here  for  two  long 
years,  a  warmth  that  means  love  for  the  neglected,  for  the 
defeated,  for  the  helpless,  a  warmth  that  lights  a  fire  on 
every  hearth  in  every  house  in  Russia — ^that  is  a  greater 
thing  than  the  possessors  of  it  know. 

Through  all  the  little  quarrels  and  disputes  of  our  com- 
pany there  ran  the  thread  of  the  affair  of  Trenchard,  Marie 
Ivanovna  and  Semyonov.  Trenchard  was  lighted  now  with 
the  pleasure  of  their  affection,  and  Marie  Ivanovna,  who 
had  been  at  first  so  popular  amongst  them,  was  held  to  be 
hard  and  capricious.  She,  at  least,  did  not  make  it  easy 
for  them  to  like  her.    She  had  seemed  in  those  first  days  in 

O as  though  she  wished  to  win  all  their  hearts,  but  now 

it  was  as  though  she  had  not  time  to  consider  any  of  us,  as 
though  she  had  something  of  far  greater  importance  to 
claim  her  attention.  She  was  now  very  continually  with 
Semyonov  and  yet  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  rather  re- 
spect for  his  opinion  and  admiration  of  his  independence 
than  liking  that  compelled  her.  He  was,  beyond  any  ques- 
tion, in  love  with  her,  if  the  name  of  love  can  be  given  to 
the  fierce,  intolerant  passion  that  governed  him. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  disguise  his  feelings,  was  as  rude 
to  the  rest  of  us  as  he  pleased,  and,  of  course,  flung  his 
scorn  plentifully  over  Trenchard.  But  now  I  seemed  to 
detect  in  him  some  shades  of  restlessness  and  anxiety  that 
I  had  never  seen  in  him  before.  He  was  not  sure  of  her; 
he  did  not,  I  believe,  understand  her  any  more  than  did  the 
rest  of  us.  With  justice,  indeed,  I  was  afraid  for  her.  His 
passion,  I  thought,  was  as  surely  and  as  nakedly  a  physical 
one  as  any  other  that  I  had  seen  precede  it,  and  would  as 
certainly  pass  as  all  purely  physical  passions  do.    She  was 


THE  KETREAT  177 

as  ignorant  of  the  world  as  on  the  day  when  she  arrived 
amongst  us;  but  mj  feeling  about  her  was  that  she  would 
receive  his  love  almost  as  though  in  a  dream,  her  thoughts 
fixed  on  something  far  from  him  and  in  no  way  depend- 
ing on  him.  At  any  rate  she  was  with  him  now  continually. 
We  judged  her  proud  and  hard-hearted,  all  of  us  except 
Trenchard  who  loved  her,  Semyonov  who  wanted  her,  and 
Nikitin,  who,  as  I  now  believe,  even  then  understood  her. 

Trenchard  meanwhile  was  confused  and  unsettled:  in- 
action did  not  suit  him  any  better  than  it  did  the  rest  of 
us.    He  had  too  much  time  to  think  about  Marie  Ivanovna. 

He  was  undoubtedly  pleased  at  his  new  popularity.  He 
expanded  under  it  and  became  something  of  the  loquacious 
and  uncalculating  person  that  he  had  shown  himself  dur- 
ing his  confession  to  me  in  the  train.  To  the  Russians  his 
loquacity  was  in  no  way  strange  or  unpleasant.  They  were 
in  the  habit  of  unburdening  themselves,  their  hopes,  their 
disappointments,  their  joys,  their  tragedies,  to  the  first 
strangers  whom  they  met.  It  seemed  quite  natural  to  them 
that  Trenchard,  puffing  his  rebellious  pipe,  should  talk  to 
them  about  Glebeshire,  Polchester,  Rafiel,  Millie  and  Kath- 
erine  Trenchard. 

"I'd  like  you  to  meet  Katherine,  Anna  Petrovna,"  he 
would  say.  "You  would  find  her  delightful.  She's  mar- 
ried now  to  a  young  man  she  ran  away  with,  which  sur- 
prised every  one — her  running  away,  I  mean,  because  she 
was  always  considered  such  a  serious  character." 

"I  forget  whether  you've  seen  my  children,  'Mr.'  "  Anna 
Petrovna  would  reply.  "I  must  show  you  their  photo- 
graph." 

And  she  would  produce  the  large  and  hideous  picture. 

He  was  the  same  as  in  those  first  days,  and  yet  how  im- 
mensely not  the  same.     He  bore  himself  now  with  a  chiv- 


178  THE  DAEK  FOKEST 

alrous  tact  towards  Marie  Ivanovna  that  was  beyond  all 
praise.  He  always  clierished  in  his  heart  his  memory  of 
their  little  conversation  in  the  orchard.  "How  I  wish,"  he 
told  me,  "that  I  had  made  that  conversation  longer.  It  was 
so  very  short  and  I  might  so  easily  have  lengthened  it. 
There  were  so  many  things  afterwards  that  I  might  have 
said — and  she  never  gave  me  another  chance." 

She  never  did — she  kept  him  from  her.     Kind  to  him, 
perhaps,  but  never  allowing  him  another  moment's  inti 
macy.     He  had  almost  the  air,  it  seemed  to  me,  of  pa 
tiently  waiting  for  the  moment  when  she  should  need  him, 
the  air  too  of  a  man  who  was  sure,  in  his  heart,  that  that 
moment  would  come. 

And  the  other  thing  that  stiffened  him  was  his  hatred 
for  Semyonov.  Hatred  may  seem  too  fierce  a  word  for 
the  emotion  of  any  one  as  mild  and  gentle  as  Trenchard — 
and  yet  hatred  at  this  time  it  was.  He  seemed  no  longer 
afraid  of  Semyonov  and  there  was  something  about  him 
now  which  surprised  the  other  man.  Through  all  those 
first  days  at  Mittovo,  when  we  seemed  for  a  moment  almost 
to  have  slipped  out  of  the  war  and  to  be  leading  the  smaller 
more  quarrelsome  life  of  earlier  days,  Trenchard  was  oc- 
cupied with  only  one  question — "What  was  he  feeling  about 
Semyonov?" — "I  felt  as  though  I  could  stand  anything  if 
only  she  didn't  love  him.  Since  that  awful  night  of  the 
Retreat  I  had  resigned  myself  to  losing  her ;  any  one  should 
marry  her  who  would  make  her  happy — ^but  he — never! 
But  it  was  the  indecision  that  I  could  not  bear.  I  didn't 
know — I  couldn't  tell,  what  she  felt." 

The  indecision  was  not  to  last  much  longer.  One  evening, 
when  we  had  been  at  Mittovo  about  a  week,  he  was  at  the 
Cross  watching  the  sun,  like  a  crimson  flower,  sink  behind 
the  dim  grey  forest.    The  Nestor,  in  the  evening  mist,  was 


THE  KETKEAT  179 

a  golden  shadow  under  the  hill.  This  beauty  made  him 
melancholy.  He  was  wishing  passionately,  as  he  stood 
there,  for  work,  hard,  dangerous,  gripping  work.  He  did 
not  know  that  that  was  to  be  the  last  idle  minute  of  his  life. 
Hearing  a  step  on  the  path  he  turned  round  to  find  Sem- 
yonov  at  his  side. 

"Lovely  view,  isn't  it  ?"  said  Semyonov,  watching  him. 

"Lovely,"  answered  Trenchard. 

Semyonov  sat  down  on  the  little  stone  seat  beneath  the 
Cross  and  looked  up  at  his  rival.  Trenchard  looked  down 
at  him,  hating  his  square,  stolid  composure,  his  thick  thighs, 
his  fair  beard,  his  ironical  eyes.  "You're  a  beastly  man !" 
he  thought. 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  be  with  us,  do  you  think  ?" 
asked  Semyonov. 

"Don't  know — depends  on  so  many  things." 

"Why  don't  you  go  back  to  England?  They  want  sol- 
diers." 

"Wouldn't  pass  my  eyesight." 

"When  are  they  going  to  begin  doing  something  on  the 
other  Front,  do  you  think  ?" 

"When  they're  ready,  I  suppose." 

"They're  very  slow.  Where's  all  your  army  we  heard 
80  much  about?" 

"There's  a  big  army  going  to  be  ready  soon." 

"Yes,  but  we  were  told  things  would  begin  in  May.  It's 
only  the  Germans  who've  begun." 

"I  don't  know;  I've  seen  no  English  papers  for  some 
weeks." 

There  was  a  pause.  Semyonov  smiled,  stood  up,  looked 
into  Trenchard's  eyes. 

"I  must  go  to  England,"  he  said  slowly,  "after  the  war. 
Marie  Ivanovna  and  I  will  go,  I  hope,  together.     She  told 


180  THE  DARK  FOREST 

me  to-day  that  that  is  one  of  the  things  that  she  hopes  we 
will  do  together — later  on." 

Trenchard  returned  SemjonoVs  gaze.  After  a  moment 
he  said : 

"Yes — ^you  would  enjoy  it."  He  waited,  then  added: 
"I  must  be  walking  back  now.  I'm  late  I"  And  he  turned 
away  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER  yn 


ONE    NIGHT 


MARIE  IVANOVNA  herself  spoke  to  me  of  Sem- 
yonov.  She  found  me  alone  waiting  for  my  morning 
tea.  We  were  before  the  others,  and  could  hear,  in  the  next 
room,  Molozov  splashing  water  about  the  floor  and  crying 
to  Michail,  his  servant,  to  pour  "Yestsho!  Yestsho!"  "Yest- 
shol    Yestsho!" — "Still  more!    Still  more,"  over  his  head. 

She  stood  in  the  doorway  looking  as  though  she  hated 
my  presence. 

"The  others  have  not  arrived,"  I  said.    "It's  late  to-day." 

"I  can  see,"  she  answered.    "Every  one  is  idle  now." 

Then  her  voice  changed.  She  came  across  to  me.  We 
talked  of  unimportant  things  for  a  while.  Then  she  said: 
"I'm  very  happy,  Mr.  Durward.  ...  Be  kind  about  it. 
Alexei  Petrovitch  and  I  .  .  ."     She  hesitated. 

I  looked  at  her  and  saw  that  she  was  again  the  young  and 
helpless  girl  whom  I  had  not  seen  since  that  early  morning 
before  our  first  battle.  I  said,  very  lamely,  "If  you  are 
happy,  Marie  Ivanovna,  I  am  glad." 

"You  think  it  terrible  of  me,"  she  said  swiftly.  "And 
why  do  you  all  talk  of  being  happy  ?  What  does  that  mat- 
ter? But  I  can  trust  him.  He's  strong  and  afraid  of 
nothing." 

I  could  say  nothing. 

"Of  course  you  think  me  very  bad — ^that  I  Have  treated 

181 


182  THE  DARK  FOREST 

— John — shamefully — yes?  ...  I  will  not  defend  myself 
to  you.  What  is  there  to  defend  ?  John  and  I  could  never 
have  lived  together,  n-ever.    You  yourself  must  see  that." 

"It  does  not  matter  what  I  think,"  I  answered.  "I  am 
Trenchard's  friend,  and  he  has  no  knowledge  of  life  nor 
human  nature.  He  has  made  a  bad  start.  You  must  for- 
give me  if  I  think  more  of  him  than  of  you,  Marie  Ivan- 
ovna." 

"Yes,"  she  said  fiercely.  "It  is  John — John — John,  you 
all  think  of.  But  John  would  not  have  loved  me  if  he 
knew  me  as  I  truly  am.  And  now,  at  last,  I  can  be  my- 
self.    It  does  not  matter  to  Alexei  Petrovitch  what  I  am." 

"But  you  have  known  him  so  short  a  time — and  you  have 
been  so  quick.     If  you  had  waited  .  .  ." 

"Waited !"  she  caught  me  up.  "Waited !  How  can  one 
wait  when  one  isn't  allowed  to  wait  ?  It  must  be  finished 
here,  at  once,  and  I'm  not  going  to  finish  alone.  I'm  fright- 
ened, Mr.  Durward,  but  also  I  must  see  it  right  through. 
He  makes  me  brave.  He's  afraid  of  nothing.  I  couldn't 
leave  this,  and  yet  I  was  frightened  to  go  on  alone.  With 
him  beside  me  I'm  not  afraid." 

Anna  Petrovna  interrupted  us. 

"It's  Goga's  stomach  again,"  she  said  placidly.  "He's 
had  great  pain  all  night.  It  was  those  sweets  yesterday. 
Just  give  me  that  glass,  my  dear.  Weak  tea's  the  only  thing 
he  can  have." 

Well,  I  had  said  nothing  to  Marie  Ivanovna.  What  was 
there  I  could  have  said? 

And  the  next  thing  about  Trenchard  was  that  he  had  got 
his  wish,  and  was  lying  on  his  back  once  more,  in  one  of 
our  nice,  simple,  uncomfortable  haycarts,  looking  up  at  the 
evening  sky.  This  was  the  evening  after  his  conversation 
with  Semyonov.     Quite  suddenly  the  battle  had  caught  us 


ONE  NIGHT  188 

into  its  arms  again.  It  was  raging  now  in  the  woods  to 
the  right  of  us,  woods  on  the  further  side  of  the  Kestor,  situ- 
ated on  a  tributary.  I  will  quote  now  directly  from  his 
diary : 

As  our  line  of  carts  crossed  the  great  river  I  could  hear 
the  muffled  "brum-brum"  of  the  cannons  and  "tap-tap-tap" 
of  the  machine-guns  now  so  conventionally  familiar. 
Nikitin  was  lying  in  silence  at  my  side.  Behind  us  came 
twenty  wagons  with  the  sanitars ;  the  evening  was  very  still, 
plum-colour  in  the  woods,  misty  over  the  river;  the  creak- 
ing of  our  carts  was  the  only  sound,  save  the  "brum-brum" 
and  the  "tap-tap-tap"  .  .  . 

I  lay  on  my  back  and  thought  of  Semyonov  and  myself. 
I  had  in  my  mind  two  pictures.  One  was  of  Semyonov  sit- 
ting on  the  stone  under  the  cross,  looking  up  at  me  with 
comfortable  and  ironical  insolence,  Semyonov  so  strong  and 
resolute  and  successful.  Semyonov  who  got  what  he 
wanted,  did  what  he  wanted,  said  what  he  wanted. 

The  other  picture  was  of  myself,  as  I  had  been  the  other 
night  when  I  had  gone  with  the  wagons  to  Nijnieff  to  fetch 
the  wounded.  I  saw  myself  standing  in  a  muddy  little  lane 
just  outside  the  town,  under  pouring  rain.  The  wagons 
waited  there,  the  horses  stamping  now  and  then,  and  the 
wounded  men  on  the  only  wagon  that  was  filled,  moaned 
and  cried.  Shrapnel  whizzed  overhead — sometimes  crying, 
like  an  echo,  in  the  far  distance,  sometimes  screaming  with 
the  rage  of  a  hurt  animal  close  at  hand.  Groups  of  soldiers 
ran  swiftly  past  me,  quite  silent,  their  heads  bent.  Some- 
where on  the  high  road  I  could  hear  motor-cars  spluttering 
and  humming.  At  irregular  intervals  Red  Cross  men 
would  arrive  with  wounded,  would  ask  in  a  whisper  that 
was  inhuman  and  isolating  whether  there  were  room  on  my 


184  THE  DARK  FOREST 

carts.  Then  the  body  would  be  lifted  up;  there  would  be 
muttered  directions,  the  wounded  man  would  cry,  then  the 
other  wounded  would  also  cry — after  that,  there  would  be 
the  dismal  silence  again,  silence  broken  only  by  the  shrap- 
nel and  the  heavy  plopping  smothers  of  the  rair^i.  But  it 
was  myself  upon  whom  my  eyes  were  fixed,  myself,  a  mis- 
erable figure,  the  rain  dripping  from  me,  slipping  down 
my  neck,  squelching  under  my  boots.  And  as  I  stood  there 
I  was  afraid.  That  was  what  I  now  saw.  I  had  been  terri- 
bly afraid  for  the  first  time  since  I  had  come  to  the 
war.  I  had  worked  all  day  in  the  bandaging  room,  and 
perhaps  my  physical  weariness  was  responsible;  but  what- 
ever it  might  be  there  I  was,  a  coward.  At  the  threat  of 
every  shrapnel  I  bent  my  head  and  shrugged  my  shoulders, 
at  every  cry  of  the  wounded  men — one  man  was  delirious 
and  sang  a  little  song — a  shudder  trembled  all  down  my 
body.  I  thought  of  the  bridge  between  myself  and  the 
Otriad — ^how  easily  it  might  be  blown  up !  and  then,  if 
the  Division  were  beaten  back  what  massacre  there  would 
be !  I  wanted  to  go  home,  to  sleep,  to  be  safe  and  warm — 
above  all,  to  be  safe !  I  saw  before  me  some  of  the  wounded 
whom  I  had  bandaged  to-day — men  without  faces  or  with 
hanging  jaws  that  must  be  held  up  with  the  hand  whilst 
the  bandage  was  tied.  One  man  blind,  one  man  mad  (he 
thought  he  was  drowning  in  hot  water),  one  man  holding 
his  stomach  together  with  his  hands.  I  saw  all  these  figures 
crowding  round  me  in  the  lane — I  also  saw  the  dead  men 
in  the  forest,  the  skull,  the  flies,  the  strong  blue-grey  trou- 
sers. ...  I  shook  so  that  my  teeth  chattered — a  very  piti- 
ful figure. 

Well,  that  was  the  other  night.  It  was  true  that  to-night 
I  did  not  feel  frightened — at  least  not  as  yet.  But  then  it 
was  a  beautiful  evening,  very  peaceful,  still  and  warm — 


ONE  NIGHT  185 

and  there  was  Nikitin.  In  any  case  there  were  those  two 
figures  whom  I  must  consider — Semyonov  and  myself. 
That  brief  conversation  last  night  had  brought  us  quite 
sharply  face  to  face.  I  found  to  my  own  surprise  that 
Semyonov's  declaration  of  his  engagement  had  not  been  a 
great  shock  to  me,  had  not  indeed  altered  very  greatly  the 
earlier  situation.  But  it  had  shown  me  quite  clearly  that 
my  own  love  for  Marie  Ivanovna  was  in  no  way  diminished, 
that  I  must  protect  her  from  a  man  who  was,  I  felt,  quite 
simply  a  "beastly"  man. 

Well,  then  if  Semyonov  and  I  were  to  fight  it  out,  I 
would  need  to  be  at  my  best.  Did  that  little  picture  of 
the  other  evening  show  me  at  my  best  ?  This  business  pre- 
sented a  bigger  fight  than  the  simple  one  with  Semyonov.  I 
knew,  quite  clearly,  as  I  lay  on  my  back  in  the  cart,  that  the 
fight  against  Semyonov  and  the  fight  against  .  .  .  was 
mingled  together,  depended  for  their  issue  one  upon  the 
other — that  the  dead  men  in  the  forest  had  no  merely  acci- 
dental connexion  with  Marie  Ivanovna's  safety  and  Sem- 
yonov's scornful  piracies. 

Well,  then  .  .  .  Semyonov  and  I,  I  and  my  old  dead 
uncle,  myself  shaking  in  the  road  the  other  night  under 
the  rain !    What  was  to  be  the  issue  of  all  of  it  ? 

I,  on  this  lovely  evening,  saw  quite  clearly  the  progress 
of  events  that  had  brought  me  to  this  point.  One:  that 
drive  with  Durward  on  the  first  day  when  we  had  stopped  at 
the  trench  and  heard   the  frogs.      Two :   the  evening  at 

O ,  when  Marie  Ivanovna  had  been  angry  and  we  had 

first  heard  the  cannon.    Three :  the  day  at  S and  Marie 

kneeling  on  the  cart  with  her  hand  on  Semyonov's  shoulder. 
Four:  her  refusal  of  me,  the  bodies  in  the  forest,  the  Re- 
treat, that  night  Nikitin  (getting  well  into  the  thick  of  it 
now).     Five:  the  talk  with  Marie  in  the  park.     Six:  the 


186  THE  DARK  FOREST 

wet  night  at  Nijnieff.  Seven:  last  night's  little  talk  with 
Semyonov.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  could  see  now  that  I  had  been  ad- 
vancing always  forward  into  the  forest,  growing  ever  nearer 
and  nearer,  perceiving  now  the  tactics  of  the  enemy,  beaten 
here,  frightened  there,  but  still  penetrating — not,  as  yet, 
retreating  .  .  .  and  always,  my  private  little  history 
marching  with  me,  confused  with  the  private  little  his- 
tories of  all  of  the  others,  all  of  them  penetrating  more 
deeply  and  more  deeply.  .  .  . 

And  if  I  lost  my  nerve  I  was  beaten !  If  I  had  lost  my 
nerve  no  protecting  of  Marie,  no  defiance  of  Semyonov — 
and,  far  beyond  these,  abject  submission  to  my  enemy  in 
the  forest.  //  I  had  lost  my  nerve!  .  .  .  Had  I?  Was 
it  only  weariness  the  other  night  ?  But  twice  now  I  had 
been  properly  beaten,  and  why,  after  all,  should  I  imagine 
that  I  would  be  able  to  put  up  a  fight — I  who  had  never 
in  all  my  life  fought  anything  successfully  ?  I  lay  on  my 
back,  looked  at  the  sky.  I  sat  up,  looked  at  the  country. 
I  set  my  teeth,  looked  at  Nikitin. 

Nikitin  grunted.  "I've  had  a  good  nap,"  he  said.  "You 
should  have  had  one.  There'll  be  plenty  of  work  for  us  to- 
night by  the  sound  of  it."  We  turned  a  comer  of  the  road 
through  the  wood  and  one  of  our  own  batteries  jumped 
upon  us. 

"I'm  glad  it's  not  raining,"  I  said. 

"We've  still  some  way  to  go,"  said  Kikitin,  sitting  up. 
"What  a  lovely  evening!"  Then  he  added,  quite  without 
apparent  connexion,  "Well,  you're  more  at  home  amongst  us 
all  now,  aren't  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  I. 

"I'm  glad  of  that.  And  what  do  you  think  of  Audrey 
Vassilievitch  ?" 


ONE  NIGHT  187 

I  answered:  "Oh!  I  like  him!  .  .  .  but  I  don't  think 
he's  happy  at  the  war,"  I  added. 

"I  want  you  to  like  him,"  Nikitin  said.  "He's  a  splendid 
man  ...  I  have  known  him  many  years.  He  is  merry 
and  simple  and  it  is  easy  to  laugh  at  him,  but  it  is  al- 
ways easy  to  laugh  at  the  best  people.  You  must  like  him, 
*Mr.'  .  .  .  He  likes  you  very  much." 

I  felt  as  though  Nikitin  were  here  forming  an  alliance 
between  the  three  of  us.  Well,  I  liked  Nikitin,  I  liked 
Audrey  Vassilievitch.  I  listened  to  the  battery,  now  some 
way  behind  us,  then  said : 

"Of  course,  I  am  his  friend  if  he  wishes." 

Nikitin  repeated  solemnly:  "Audrey  Vassilievitch  is  a 
splendid  fellow." 

Then  we  arrived.  Here,  beside  the  broad  path  of  the 
forest  there  was  a  clearing  and  above  the  clearing  a  thick 
pattern  of  shining  stars  curved  like  the  top  of  a  shell. 
Here,  in  the  open,  the  doctors  had  made  a  temporary  hos- 
pital, fastening  candles  on  the  trees,  arranging  two  tables 
on  trestles,  all  very  white  and  clean  under  a  brilliant  full 
moon.  There  were  here  two  Sisters  whom  I  did  not  know, 
several  doctors,  one  of  them  a  fat  little  army  doctor  who  had 
often  been  a  visitor  to  our  Otriad.  The  latter  greeted  Niki- 
tin  warmly,  nodded  to  me.  He  was  a  gay,  merry  little 
man  with  twinkling  eyes.  "Noo  tak.  Fine,  our  hospital, 
don't  you  think?  Plenty  to  do  this  night,  my  friend. 
Here,  goluhchik,  this  way.  .  .  .  Finger,  is  it  ?  Oh !  that's 
nothing.  Here,  courage  a  moment.  Where  are  the  scis- 
sors? .  .  .  scissors,  some  one.  One  moment.  .  .  .  One 
.  .  .  moment.  Ah!  there  you  are!"  The  finger  that  had 
been  hanging  by  a  shred  fell  into  the  basin.  The  soldier  mut- 
tered something,  slipped  on  to  his  knees,  his  face  grey  under 


188  THE  DARK  FOREST 

the  moon,  then  huddled  into  nothing,  like  a  bundle  of  old 
clothes,  fainted  helplessly  away. 

"Here,  water!  .  .  .  No,  take  him  over  there!  That's 
right.  Well,  'Mr.' — ^how  are  you?  Lovely  night.  .  .  . 
Plenty  of  work  there'll  be,  too.  Oh!  you're  going  down 
to  the  Vengerovsky  Polk?  Yes,  they're  down  to  the  right 
there  somewhere — across  the  fields.  .  .  .  Warm  over 
there." 

The  noise  just  then  of  the  batteries  was  terrific.  We  were 
compelled  to  shout  at  one  another.  A  battery  behind  us 
bellowed  like  a  young  bull  and  the  shrapnel  falling  at  some 
distance  amongst  the  trees  had  a  strange  splashing  sound 
as  of  a  stone  falling  into  water.*  The  candles  twinkled  in 
the  breeze  and  the  place  had  the  air  of  a  Christmas-tree  cele- 
bration, the  wounded  soldiers  waiting  their  turn  as  chil- 
dren wait  for  their  presents.  The  starlight  gave  the  effect 
of  a  blue-frosted  crispness  to  the  pine-strewn  ground.  We 
arranged  our  wagons  safely,  then,  followed  by  the  sanitars, 
walked  off,  Nikitin  almost  fantastically  tall  under  the  star- 
light as  he  strode  along.  The  forest-path  stopped  and  we 
came  to  open  country.  Eields  with  waving  corn  stretched 
before  us  to  be  lost  in  the  farther  distance  in  the  dark  shad- 
ows of  the  forest. 

A  little  bunch  of  soldiers  crouched  here,  watching. 
ISTikitin  spoke  to  them. 

"Here,  goluhchik  .  .  .  tell  me!  what  ^oZfe?'' 

"Moskovsky,  your  Honour." 

*  It  must  be  remembered  that  this  accoimt  is  Trenchard's — taken 
from  his  diary.  In  my  own  experience  I  have  never  known  the  burst- 
ing of  shell  to  sound  in  the  least  like  a  stone  in  water.  But  he  insists 
on  the  accuracy  of  this.  Throughout  this  and  the  succeeding  chapters 
there  are  many  statements  for  which  I  have  only  his  authority. — P.D. 


ONE  NIGHT  189 

"And  the  Vengerovskj  .  .  .  they're  to  the  right,  are 
they?" 

"Yes,  your  Honour.  By  the  high  road,  when  it  comes 
into  the  forest.'* 

"What  ?    There  where  the  road  turns  ?" 

"Tah  totchno/' 

"How  are  things  down  there  just  now?  Wounded,  do 
you  think  ?" 

"Ne  mogoo  znat.  I'm  unable  to  say,  your  Honour  .  .  . 
but  there's  been  an  attack  there  an  hour  ago." 

"Are  those  ours?" — listening  to  a  battery  across  the 
fields. 

"Ours,  your  Honour." 

"Well,  we'll  go  on  and  see." 

I  had  listened  to  this  conversation  with  the  sensation  of 
a  man  who  has  stopped  himself  on  the  very  edge  of  a  preci- 
pice. I  thought  in  those  few  moments  with  a  marvellous 
and  penetrating  clarity.    I  had,  after  all,  been  always  until 

now  at  the  battle  of  S ,  or  when  I  had  gone  with  the 

wagons  to  NijniefF,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  thing.  I  knew 
that  to-night,  in  another  ten  minutes,  I  would  be  in  the 
middle — the  "very  middle."  As  I  waited  there  I  recalled 
the  pages  of  the  diary  of  some  officer,  a  diary  that  had  been 
shown  me  quite  casually  by  its  owner.  It  had  been  a  mir- 
acle of  laconic  brevity:  "6.30  a.  m.,  down  to  the  battery. 
All  quiet.  8.0,  three  of  their  shells.  One  of  ours  killed, 
two  wounded.  Five  yards'  distance.  8.30,  breakfasted; 
K.  arrived  from  the  'Doll's  House' — all  quiet  there,"  and 
so  on.  This,  I  knew,  was  the  proper  way  to  look  at  the  af- 
fair: "6.0  A,  M.,  down  to  the  battery.  7.0  a.  m.,  break- 
fasted. 8.0  A.  M.,  dead.  .  .  ."  For  the  life  of  me  now  I 
could  not  look  at  it  like  that.  I  saw  a  thousand  things  that 
were,  perhaps,  not  really  there,  but  were  there  at  any  rate 


190  THE  DAEK  FOKEST 

for  me.  If  I  was  beaten  to-uight  I  was  beaten  once  and 
for  all.  ...  I  saw  the  shining  road  under  the  starlight  and 
shadows  of  wounded  men,  groaning  and  stumbling,  whisper- 
ing their  way  along. 

"Let's  go,"  said  l^ikitin. 

I  drew  a  breath  and  stepped  out  into  the  moonlight.  A 
shell  burst  with  a  delicate  splash  of  fire  amongst  the  stars. 
The  road  looked  very  long  and  very,  very  lonely. 

However,  soon  I  found  myself  walking  along  it  quite 
casually  and  talking  about  unimportant  peaceful  things. 
"Come,"  I  thought  to  myself.    "This  really  isn't  so  bad." 

"It's  a  great  pity,"  ITikitin  said,  "that  I  can't  read  Eng- 
lish. Have  to  take  your  novelists  as  they  choose  to  give 
them  us.    Who  is  there  now  in  England  ?" 

"Well,"  said  I  as  one  talks  in  a  dream,  "there's  Hardy, 
and  Henry  James,  and  Conrad.  I've  seen  translations  of 
Conrad  in  Petrograd.     And  then  there's  Wells " 

"Yes,  Wells  I  know.  But  he  writes  stories  for  boys.  .  .  . 
There's  Jack  London,  but  his  are  American.  I  like  to  read 
an  English  novel  sometimes.  Your  English  life  is  so  cosy. 
You  have  tea  before  the  fire  and  everything  is  comfortable. 
We  don't  know  what  comfort  is  in  Russia." 

A  machine  gun  "rat-tat-tat-tated"  close  to  us,  and  three 
rockets,  like  a  flight  of  startled  birds,  rose  suddenly  to- 
gether on  the  far  horizon. 

"1^0,  we  have  no  comfort  in  Russia,"  repeated  Nikitin. 
"ll^Tow  I  fancy  that  an  English  country-house.  .  .  ." 

We  had  reached  the  further  wood;  the  moonlight  fell 
away  from  us  and  the  shadows  shifted  and  trembled  under 
the  reflection  of  rockets  and  a  projector  that  swung  lazily 
and  unsteadily,  like  something  nodding  in  its  sleep. 

On  the  left  of  the  road  there  was  a  house  standing  back 


ONE  NIGHT  191 

in  its  own  garden.  I  could  see  dimly  that  this  was  a  row 
of  country  villas. 

"Stand  by  this  gate  five  minutes,"  Nikitin  whispered  to 
me.  "I  must  find  the  Colonel.  The  sanitars  will  come  and 
fetch  you  when  I've  settled  the  spot  for  our  bandaging." 

Nikitin  disappeared  and  I  was  quite  alone.  I  felt  ter- 
ribly desolate.  I  stood  back  against  the  gate  of  the  villa 
watching  soldiers  hurry  by,  seeing  high  mysterious  hedges, 
the  roofs  of  houses,  a  line  of  lighted  sky,  the  tops  of  trees, 
all  these  things  rising  and  falling  as  the  glare  in  the  heav- 
ens rose  and  fell.  There  was  sometimes  a  terrible  noise 
and  sometimes  an  equally  terrible  stillness.  Somewhere  in 
the  darkness  a  man  was  groaning,  "Oh !  ah ! — Oh !  ah !" 
without  cessation.  Somewhere  the  gate  of  one  of  the  villas 
swung  to  and  fro,  creaking.  Sometimes  soldiers  would  stare 
at  my  motionless  figure  and  then  pass  on.  All  this  time, 
as  in  one's  dreams  sometimes  one  holds  off  a  nightmare,  I 
was  keeping  my  fear  at  bay.  I  had  now  exactly  the  sensa- 
tion that  I  had  known  so  often  in  my  dream,  that  I  was 
standing  somewhere  in  the  dark,  that  the  Enemy  was  watch- 
ing me  and  waiting  to  spring.  But  to-night  I  was  only 
nearly  afraid.  One  step  on  my  part,  one  extra  noise,  one 
more  flare  of  light,  and  I  would  abandon  myself  to  panic, 
but,  although  the  perspiration  was  wet  on  my  forehead, 
my  heart  thumping,  and  my  hands  dry  and  hot,  I  was  not 
yet  quite  afraid. 

I  had  a  strange  sensation  of  suffocation,  as  though  I  were 
at  the  bottom  of  a  well,  a  well  black  and  damp,  with  the 
stars  of  the  sky  miles  away.  There  came  to  me,  with  a  kind 
of  ironic  sentimentality,  the  picture  of  the  drawing-room 
at  home  in  Polchester,  the  comer  where  the  piano  stood 
with  a  palm  in  an  ugly  brass  pot  just  behind  it,  the  table 
near  the  door  with  a  brass  Indian  tray  and  a  fat  photograph- 


192  THE  DAEK  FOKEST 

book  with  gilt  clasps,  the  picture  of  "Christ  being  Scourged" 
above  the  fireplace,  and  the  green  silk  screen  that  stood  un- 
der the  picture  in  the  summer. 

A  soldier  stopped  and  spoke  to  me:  "Your  Honour, 
it's  on  the  right — ^the  next  gate."  I  followed  him  without 
attention,  having  no  doubt  but  that  this  was  one  of  our 
own  sanitars,  and  accompanied  a  group  of  soldiers  that  sur- 
rounded a  bobbing  kitchen  on  wheels.  I  was  puzzled  by  the 
kitchen  because  I  knew  that  one  had  not  been  brought  by 
our  Otriad,  but  I  thought  that  the  doctors  of  the  Division 
had  perhaps  begged  our  men  to  aid  the  army  sanitars. 

We  hurried  through  a  gate  to  the  right,  where  in  what 
appeared  to  be  a  yard  of  some  kind,  the  kitchen  was  estab- 
lished and  then,  from  out  of  the  very  earth  as  it  seemed, 
soldiers  appeared,  clustering  around  it  with  their  tin  cans. 
The  soldier  who  was  in  charge  of  the  party  said  to  me  in 
a  confidential  whisper:  "There's  plenty  of  Kasha,  your 
Honour,  and  the  soup  will  last  us,  too." 

"Very  good,"  said  I  in  a  bewildered  voice.  At  the 
strange  accent  the  soldier  looked  dX  me,  and  then  I  looked  at 
the  soldier.  The  soldier  was  a  stranger  to  me  (a  pleasant 
round  man  with  a  huge  smiling  mouth  and  two  chins)  and  I 
was  a  stranger  to  the  soldier. 

"Well,"  said  the  soldier,  looking,  "I  thought  .  .  ." 

'^I  thought — "  said  I,  most  uncomfortable. 

The  soldiers  vanished  back  into  the  darknesses  round  the 
kitchen.     Voices,  whispering,  could  be  heard. 

"Now,  that's  the  end,"  thought  I.  "I'm  shot  as  a  Ger- 
man spy." 

I  looked  at  the  soldiers,  clustered  like  bees  round  the 
kitchen,  then  I  slipped  through  the  gate  into  the  dark  road. 
I  stood  there  listening.  The  battle  seemed  to  have  drawn 
away,  because  I  could  hear  rifles,  machine-guns,  cannon 


ONE  NIGHT  193 

muffled  round  a  comer  of  the  hill.  Here  there  was  now 
silence,  broken  only  by  soldiers  who  hurried  up  the  road  or 
went  in  and  out  at  the  villa  gates.  I  felt  abandoned.  How 
was  I  to  discover  Nikitin  again  ?  Before  what  gate  had  I 
stood  ?    I  did  not  know ;  I  seemed  to  know  nothing. 

I  moved  down  the  road,  very  miserable  and  very  cold. 
I  had  stupidly  left  my  coat  in  one  of  the  wagons.  I 
walked  on,  my  boots  knocking  against  one  another,  thinking 
to  myself:  "If  I'm  not  given  something  to  do  very  soon  I 
shall  be  just  as  I  was  the  other  night  at  Nijnieff — and  then 
I  shall  suddenly  take  to  my  heels  down  this  road  as  hard  as 
I  can  go!" 

It  was  then  that  I  tumbled  straight  into  the  arms  of  Niki- 
tin,  who  was  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  forest,  watching 
for  me.  I  was  so  happy  that  I  felt  now  afraid  of  nothing. 
I  held  Nikitin's  arm,  babbling  something  about  kitchen* 
and  Germans. 

"Well,  I  don't  understand  what  you  say,"  I  remember 
Nikitin  replied;  "but  you  must  come  and  work.  There's 
plenty  of  it." 

We  moved  to  a  cottage  on  the  very  boundary  of  the  for- 
est, where  a  little  common  ran  down  to  the  moonlight. 
Passing  through  a  narrow  passage,  I  entered  into  a  little 
room  with  a  large  white  stove.  On  the  top  of  the  stove, 
under  the  roof,  crouched  a  boy  or  a  young  man  with  long 
black  hair  and  a  white  face.  This  youth  wore  what  re- 
sembled a  white  shirt  over  baggy  white  trousers.  His  feet 
were  bare  and  very  dirty.  Nothing  moved  except  his  eyes. 
He  sat  there,  in  exactly  that  position,  all  night. 

The  room  was  small  but  was  the  best  that  could  be  ob- 
tained. Within  the  space  of  ten  minutes  it  became  a  per- 
fect shambles.  The  wounded  were  brought  in  without  pause 
and  under  the  candlelight  Nikitin,  two  sanitars,  and  I 


194  THE  DAEK  FOEEST 

worked  until  the  sweat  ran  down  our  backs  and  arms  in 
streams.  It  dripped  from  my  nose,  into  my  mouth,  into  my 
eyes.  The  wounds  were  horrible.  No  man  seemed  to  come 
into  the  room  with  an  unmangled  body.  The  smell  rose 
higher  and  higher,  the  bloody  rags  lay  about  the  kitchen 
floor,  torn  arms,  smashed  legs,  heads  with  gaping  wounds, 
the  pitiful  crying  and  praying,  the  shrill  voices  of  the  de- 
lirious. INikitin,  his  arms  steeped  in  blood  to  the  elbows, 
probing,  cutting,  digging,  I  myself  bandaging  until  I  did 
not  know  what  my  hands  were  doing.  .  .  .  Then  suddenly 
the  battle  coming  right  back  to  us  again,  overhead  now  as 
it  seemed;  the  cannon  shaking  three  silly  staring  china 
dogs  on  the  kitchen  dresser,  the  rifle  fire  clattering  like 
tumbling  crockery  about  the  walls  of  the  cottage — and 
through  it  all  the  white  youth,  crouched  like  a  ghost  on  the 
stove,  watching  without  pause.  .  .  . 

"Ah,  no,  your  Honour  .  .  .  Ah,  no!  ...  I  can't!  I 
can't!  Oh,  oh,  oh,  oh!"  and  then  sobs,  the  man  breaking 
down  like  a  child,  hiding  his  face  in  his  arms,  his  wounded 
leg  twitching  convulsively.  I  paused,  wiped  the  sweat 
from  my  eyes,  stood  up.    !N"ikitin  looked  at  me. 

"Take  some  fresh  air!"  he  said.  "Go  out  with  the 
stretcher  for  half  an  hour.    I  can  manage  here." 

I  wiped  my  forehead. 

"Sure  you  can  manage  ?"  I  asked. 

"Quite,"  said  Nikitin.  "Here,  hold  his  back  \  .  .  .  'No, 
duraTc,  his  hack.  Boje  moi,  can't  you  get  your  arm  under  ? 
There — like  that.  Horoshoj  golubchik,  horosho  .  .  .  only 
a  minute!    There!    There!" 

I  washed  my  hands  and  went  out.  The  air  caressed  my 
forehead  like  cold  water ;  from  the  little  garden  at  the  back 
there  came  scents  of  flowers ;  the  moonlight  was  blue  on  the 
common.    Eight  sanitars  were  waiting  to  start.    The  Feld- 


ONE  NIGHT  195 

Bcher  in  charge  of  them  did  not,  I  thought,  seem  greatly 
pleased  when  he  saw  me,  but  then  I  am  often  stupidly 
sensitive ;  no  one  said  anything  and  we  started.  We  carried 
two  stretchers  and  a  soldier  from  the  trenches  was  with  us 
to  guide  us. 

I  could  see  that  the  men  were  not  happy.  I  heard  one  of 
them  mutter  to  another  that  they  should  not  have  been 
sent  now ;  that  they  should  have  waited  until  the  attack  was 
over  .  .  .  "and  the  full  moon.  .  .  .  Did  any  one  ever  see 
such  a  moon  ?" 

We  came  to  cross-roads  and  advanced  very  carefully. 

As  we  crossed  the  road  I  was  conscious  of  great  excite- 
ment. The  noise  around  us  was  terrific  and  different  from 
any  noise  that  I  heard  before.  I  did  not  think  at  the  time, 
but  was  informed  afterwards  that  it  was  because  we  were 
almost  directly  under  a  high-wooded  cliff  (the  actual  posi- 
tion about  whose  possession  the  battle  was  being  fought), 
that  the  noise  was  so  tremendous.  The  echo  flung  every- 
thing back  so  that  each  report  sounded  three  or  four  times. 
This  certainly  had  the  strangest  effect — a  background  as  it 
were  of  rolling  thunder,  sometimes  distant,  sometimes  very 
close  and,  in  front  of  this,  clapping,  bellowing,  stamping, 
and  then  suddenly  an  absolutely  smashing  effect  as  though 
some  one  cried :  "Well,  this  will  settle  it !"  In  quieter  in- 
tervals one  heard  the  birdlike  flight  of  bullets  above  one's 
head  and  the  irritated  bad  temper  of  the  machine-guns.  At 
every  smashing  noise  the  sanitars,  who  were,  I  believe, 
schoolmasters  and  little  clerks,  and  therefore  of  a  more 
sensitive  head  than  the  peasant  soldier,  ducked  their  heads, 
and  one  fat  red-faced  man  tried  to  lie  down  flat  on  two  oc- 
casions and  was  cursed  heartily  by  the  Feldscher.  I  myself 
felt  no  fear  but  only  a  pounding  exhilarating  excitement, 
because  I  was  at  last  "really  in  it."    We  found  one  wounded 


196  THE  DAKK  FOKEST 

man  very  soon,  lying  under  the  hedge  with  the  top  of  his 
head  gone.  Four  sanitars  (their  relief  showed  very  plainly 
in  their  faces)  returned  with  him.  We  advanced  again, 
skirting  now  a  little  orchard  and  keeping  always  in  the 
shadow  under  the  hedge.  Our  guide,  the  soldier,  assured 
us  that  the  wounded  man  was  "very  near — quite  close." 
Then  we  came  to  a  large  bam  on  the  edge  of  what  seemed 
a  silver  lake  but  was  in  reality  a  long  field  under  the  full 
light  of  the  moon.  As  we  paused  I  saw,  on  the  further  side 
of  the  field,  two  shells  burst,  very  quickly,  one  after  the 
other. 

We  all  stopped  under  the  shelter  of  the  barn. 

"Well,"  said  the  Feldsoher  to  the  soldier,  "whereas  your 


mans 


2" 


"Only  a  short  way,"  said  the  soldier.     "Quite  close." 

"Across  that  field  ?"  asked  the  Feldscher,  pointing  to  the 
moonlight. 

"Yes,  certainly,"  said  the  soldier. 

The  Feldscher  scratched  his  head.  "We  can't  go  further 
without  orders,"  he  said.  "That's  very  dangerous  in  front 
there.  I'm  responsible  for  these  men.  We  must  return 
and  ask,  your  Honour,"  he  said,  turning  to  me. 

"We  shall  be  nearly  an  hour  returning,"  I  said.  "Is 
your  friend  badly  wounded  ?"  I  asked  the  soldier. 

"Very,"  said  he. 

"You  see  ..."  I  said  to  the  Feldscher.  "We  can't  pos- 
sibly leave  him  like  that.    It's  only  a  little  way." 

The  Feldscher  shook  his  head.  "I  can't  be  responsible. 
I  had  my  orders  to  go  so  far  and  no  further.  I  must  see 
that  my  men  are  safe." 

The  sanitars  who  were  sitting  in  a  row  on  their  haunches 
under  the  shadow  of  the  bam  all  nodded  their  heads. 

"I  didn't  know  Kussians  were  cowards,"  I  said  fiercely. 


ONE  NIGHT  197 

The  Feldscher  shook  his  head  quite  unmoved:  "Your 
Honour  must  understand  that  I  had  my  orders."  Then 
he  added  slowly:  "but  of  course  if  your  Honour  wishes  to 
go  yourself  ...  I  would  come  with  you.  The  others  .  .  . 
they  must  do  as  they  please.  They  are  in  their  right  to  re- 
turn.   Biit  I  should  advise  that  we  return." 

"I'm  going  on,"  I  said. 

I  must  say  here  that  I  felt  no  other  sensation  than  a 
blind  and  quite  obstinate  selfishness.  I  had  no  thought  of 
Nikitin  or  of  the  sanitars.  I  did  not  (and  this  I  must 
emphasise)  think,  for  a  moment,  of  the  wounded  man.  If 
the  situation  had  been  that  by  returning  I  should  save 
many  lives  and  by  advancing  should  save  only  my  own  I 
should  still  have  advanced.  If  the  only  hope  for  the 
wounded  man  was  my  instant  speech  with  Nikitin  I  would 
not  have  gone  back  to  speak  with  him.  I  was  at  this  mo- 
ment neither  brave  nor  fearful.  I  repeat  that  I  had  no  sen- 
sation except  an  absolutely  selfish  obstinate  challenge  that 
I,  myself,  was  addressing  to  Something  in  space.  I  was 
saying :  "At  last,  my  chance  has  come.  Now  you  shall  see 
whether  I  fly  from  you  or  no.  Now  you  shall  do  your 
worst  and  fail.    I'm  the  hunter  now,  not  the  hunted." 

I  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  this  quite  childish  preoc- 
cupation with  myself.  I  was,  nevertheless,  pleased  with 
myself.  "There,  you  see,"  some  one  near  me  seemed  to 
say,  "he's  not  quite  so  unpractical  after  all.  He's  full  of 
common  sense."  I  looked  at  the  row  of  sanitars  squatting 
on  the  ground,  and  felt  like  a  schoolmaster  with  his  chil- 
dren. 

"You'd  better  go  home  then,"  I  said  scornfully.  The 
Feldscher,  who  was  a  short  stocky  man,  with  a  red  face  and 
melancholy  eyes   (something  like  a  prize-fighter  turned 


198  THE  DAEK  FOREiST 

poet),  dismissed  them.  They  went  off  in  a  line  under  the 
hedge. 

The  man  obviously  thought  me  a  tiresome  prig.  He  had 
no  romantic  illusions  about  the  business ;  he  had  not  been  a 
Eeldscher  during  twenty  years  for  nothing  and  knew  that 
a  wound  was  a  wound ;  when  a  man  was  dead  he  was  dead. 

However  .  .  .  "Truly  it's  not  far?"  he  asked  the  sol- 
dier. 

"Tah  totchno/'  the  man  answered,  his  face  quite  without 
expression. 

We  crossed  the  moonlit  field  and  for  a  brief  moment  si- 
lence fell,  as  though  an  audience  were  holding  its  breath 
watching  us.  On  the  other  side  were  cottages,  the  outskirts 
of  a  tiny  village.  Here  beside  these  cottages  we  fell  into 
a  fantastic  world.  That  small  village  must  in  other  times 
have  been  a  pretty  place,  nestling  with  its  gardens  by  the 
river  under  the  hill.  It  seemed  now  to  rock  and  rattle 
under  the  noise  of  the  cannon.  All  the  open  spaces  were 
like  white  marble  in  the  moonlight  and  in  these  open  spaces 
there  was  utter  silence  and  emptiness.  The  place  seemed 
deserted — and  yet,  in  every  shadow,  in  long  lines  under  the 
cottage  wells,  in  little  clumps  and  clusters  round  trees  or 
ruins  there  were  eyes  staring,  the  gleam  of  muskets  shone, 
little  specks  of  light,  dancing  from  wall  to  wall.  Every- 
where there  were  bodies,  legs,  boots,  arms,  heads,  sudden 
caps,  sudden  fingers,  sudden  hot  and  streaming  breaths. 
And  over  everything  this  infernal  noise  and  yet  no  human 
sound.  A  nightmare  of  the  true  nightmare  of  dreams.  The 
open  silver  spaces,  the  little  gardens  thick  with  flowers, 
the  high  moon  and  the  starry  sky,  not  a  Kving  soul  to  be 
seen — and  nevertheless  watchers  everywhere.  "Step  for- 
ward on  to  that  little  plot  of  grass  in  front  of  the  cottage 
windows  and  you're  a  dead  man" — ^the  moonlight  said. 


ONE  NIGHT  199 

There  were  men  in  the  body  of  the  earth,  not  in  trenches, 
but  in  holes — ^my  foot  stepped  on  a  head  of  hair  and  some 
low  voice  cursed  me.  I  was,  I  suppose,  by  this  time,  a  little 
delirious  with  my  adventure.  I  know  that  I  could  now 
distinguish  no  separate  sounds — shells  and  bullets  had  van- 
ished and  in  their  stead  were  whispers  and  screams  and 
shouts  of  triumph  and  bursts  of  laughter.  Songs  in  chorus, 
somewhere  miners  hammering  below  the  earth,  somewhere 
storm  at  sea  with  the  crash  of  waves  on  rocks  and  the  shriek 
of  wind  through  rigging,  somewhere  some  one  who  dropped 
heavy  loads  of  furniture  so  carelessly  that  I  cursed  him — 
and  always  these  little  patches  of  moonlight,  so  tempting 
just  because  one  was  forbidden.  .  .  . 

We  were  not  popular  here.  Husky,  breathless  voices 
whispered  to  us  "to  be  away  from  here,  quick.  We  would 
draw  the  fire.     What  did  we  want  here  now?" 

"Have  you  any  wounded?"  we  whispered  in  return. 

"No,  no,"  the  answer  came.  "Keep  away  from  the  moon- 
light." The  voices  came  to  us  connected  sometimes  with  a 
nose,  an  eye,  or  a  leg,  often  enough  out  of  the  heaven  itself. 

"There's  a  man  wounded  behind  the  next  lines,"  some 
voice  murmured. 

We  stumbled  on  and  suddenly  came  to  a  river  with  very 
steep  banks  and  a  number  of  narrow  and  slender  bridges. 
If  this  had  in  reality  been  a  nightmare  this  river  could  not 
have  obtruded  itself  more  often  than  it  did.  We  discov- 
ered to  our  dismay  that  our  soldier-guide  had  disappeared 
(exactly  as  in  a  nightmare  he  would  have  done).  We 
crossed  the  river  (bathed  of  course  in  moonlight),  the  plank 
bridge  shaking  and  quivering  beneath  us. 

We  had  then  a  difficult  task.  Here  a  row  of  cottages  be- 
neath the  very  edge  of  the  bank  and  in  the  cottage  shadow 
the  soldiers  were  ranged   in  a  long  line.     Their  boots 


200  THE  DAEK  FOEEST 

stretched  to  the  verge  of  the  bank,  which  was  slippery  and 
uncertain.  We  had  to  walk  on  this  with  our  stretchers, 
stepping  between  the  boots,  stumbling  often  and  slipping 
down  towards  the  water. 

"Any  wounded  ?"  we  whispered  again  and  again. 

"iN'o,"  the  whisper  came  back.  "Hasten.  .  .  .  Take  care 
of  the  moonlight." 

And  then,  to  my  infinite  relief  and  comfort,  behind  the 
cottages  we  found  our  wounded  man.  There  was  a  dark 
yard  here,  apparently  quite  deserted.  The  Feldscher  made 
an  exclamation  and  stepped  forward.  Three  bodies  lay  to- 
gether, over  one  another ;  two  men  were  dead  and  cold,  the 
third  stirred,  very  faintly,  as  we  came  up,  opened  his  eyes, 
smiled  and  said: 

"Eh,  Boje  moi  .  ,  .  at  last !" 

As  we  moved  him  on  to  the  stretcher,  with  a  little  sigh 
he  fainted  again.  He  had  a  bad  stomach-wound.  Before 
picking  up  the  stretcher,  the  Feldscher  wiped  his  forehead 
and  crossed  himself. 

"It's  a  heavy  thing  for  two,"  he  said.  "He's  a  big  man," 
looking  at  the  soldier.  There  was  now  somewhere,  appar- 
ently not  very  far  away,  hot  rifle  fire.  The  crackle  sparkled 
in  the  air,  as  though  one  were  living  in  a  world  in  which 
all  the  electricity  was  loose.  The  other  firing  seemed  to 
have  drawn  away,  and  the  "Boom — Boom — boom"  in 
front  of  us  was  echo  from  the  hill.  .  .  . 

We  picked  up  the  stretcher  and  started.  It  was  for- 
tunate for  us  that  we  had  that  difficult  bit  beside  the  river 
at  the  beginning  of  our  journey.  I  don't  know  how  we 
managed  it,  stepping  over  the  endless  row  of  legs,  with 
every  side  step  the  stretcher  lurching  over  to  the  left  and 
threatening  to  pitch  us  into  the  river.  So  slippery  too  was 
the  ground  that  our  boots  refused  to  grip.     The  man  on 


ONE  NIGHT  201 

the  stretcher  was  dreaming,  making  a  little  sound  like  an 
unceasing  lullaby  on  two  notes — "Na  .  .  .  na!  Na  .  .  . 
na!    Na  .  .  .  na!" 

We  were  compelled  to  cross  the  river  twice,  and  the 
planks  bent  under  our  weight  until  I  was  assured  that  they 
would  snap.  My  arms  were  beginning  to  ache  and  the  sweat 
to  trickle  down  my  spine.  My  right  boot  had  rubbed  my 
heel.  We  left  the  river  behind  us  and  then,  suddenly,  my 
right  hand  began  to  slip  off  the  iron  handle  of  the  stretcher. 

"We'll  have  to  put  it  down  a  moment,"  I  said.  We  laid 
it  on  the  ground  and  at  the  same  instant  a  bullet  sang  so 
close  to  my  ear  that  I  felt  it  as  though  an  insect  had  bitten 
me.  Then  a  shell,  exploding,  as  it  seemed  to  us,  amongst 
the  very  cottages  where  we  had  just  been,  startled  us. 

"We  saved  our  man,"  said  the  Feldscher,  looking  at  the 
soldier,  "but  we'd  better  move  on.  It's  uncomfortable 
here." 

We  picked  the  thing  up  and  started  again,  and  at  once 
my  hand  began  to  slip  away  from  its  hold  (nightmare  sensa- 
tion exactly).  I  bent  my  head  down,  managed  to  lick  my 
hand  without  raising  it,  and  stiffened  the  muscles  of  my 
arm.  We  were  watched,  once  more,  by  a  million  eyes — 
again  I  stepped  on  a  head  of  hair  buried  somewhere  in  the 
ground.  Then  some  voice  cried  shrilly:  "Ah!  Ah!"  .  .  . 
some  man  hit. 

Every  bone  in  my  body  began  to  ache.  I  was,  of  course, 
rottenly  trained,  without  a  sound  muscle  in  my  body,  and 
my  legs  threatened  cramp,  my  heel  grated  against  my  boot 
and  sent  a  stab  to  my  stomach  with  every  movement,  my 
shoulders  seemed  to  pull  away  from  the  stretcher  as  though 
they  would  separately  rebel  against  my  orders  .  .  .  and 
my  hand  began  again  to  slip.  The  Feldscher  also  began 
to  feel  the  strain.     Once  he  asked  me  to  stop.     He  apolo- 


202  THE  DARK  FOREST 

gised;  I  could  see  the  sweat  pouring  down  his  face:    "A 
very  big  man,"  he  said. 

Whether  it  were  the  echo,  whether  my  ears  had  by  this 
time  been  utterly  deafened  and  confused  I  do  not  know, 
but  now  the  shock  and  rumble  of  the  cannon  seemed  to  come 
directly  from  under  my  feet.  I  felt  perhaps  as  though  I 
were  on  one  of  those  railways  that  I  have  seen  in  London  at 
a  fair  when  the  ground  shakes  and  quivers  beneath  you.  It 
really  would  not  have  surprised  me  had  the  earth  suddenly 
yawned  and  swallowed  me.  Every  plague  now  beset  me. 
My  hand  refused  to  hold  the  stretcher,  my  body  was  wet 
with  perspiration,  my  face  was  for  some  reason  covered 
with  mud.  .  .  .  There  was  a  snap  and  my  braces  burst. 
My  belt  was  loose  and  my  trousers,  as  though  they  had 
waited  for  their  opportunity,  slipped  down  over  my  knees. 
I  felt  the  cold  night  wind  on  my  flesh.  ^Neither  decency 
nor  comfort  mattered  to  me  now — I  would  have  walked 
gladly  naked  through  the  world.  The  Feldscher  was  mak- 
ing a  grinding  noise  between  his  teeth.  I  was  no  longer 
conscious  of  shell  or  bullets.  I  heard  no  noise.  I  was 
aware  of  neither  light  nor  darkness.  I  could  not  have  told 
my  name  had  any  one  asked  me  it.  I  did  not  recognise  trees 
nor  houses,  nor  was  I  at  all  aware  that  with  a  muddy  face 
and  my  trousers  down  to  my  knees  I  was  a  strange  figure. 
I  was  aware  of  one  thing  only — ^that  I  must  keep  my  right 
hand  on  the  stretcher.  My  left  behaved  decently  enough, 
but  my  right  was  a  rebel.  I  felt  a  personal  fury  against  it, 
as  though  I  said  to  it:  "Ah!  but  I'll  punish  you  when  I 
get  back !"  I  with  -all  my  mental  consciousness  "willed" 
it  to  remain  on  the  handle.  It  slipped.  I  drove  it  back. 
It  slipped  further,  it  was  almost  gone.  .  .  .  With  a  su- 
preme effort  I  drove  it  back  again.     "I  will  fall  off,"  said 


ONE  NIGHT  203 

my  hand.  "You  shall  not"  said  I.  "I  have!"  cried  my 
hand  triumphantly.    "Back !"  I  swore,  driving  it. 

We  were  now,  I  believe,  both  stumbling  along,  the 
wounded  man  pitching  from  side  to  side.  Of  the  rest  of  our 
journey  I  have  the  most  confused  memory.  The  firing 
had  no  longer  any  effect  upon  me.  I  was  thinking  of  my 
rebellious  hand,  my  aching  heel,  and  the  irritation  of  my 
trousers  clustered  about  my  legs.  "Another  step  and  I  shall 
fall!"  I  thought.  ...  "I  shall  sleep."  I  heard,  from  a 
great  distance  as  it  seemed,  the  soldier's  "Na  .  .  .  Na! 
Na  .  .  .  na!"  I  replied  to  him  as  a  nurse  to  her  child. 
"Na  .  .  .  na!  Na  .  .  .  na!"  .  .  .  Then  I  heard  Niki- 
tin's  voice.  .  .  . 

Half  an  hour  after  my  adventure  I  was  watching  the 
dawn  flood  the  sky  from  the  little  garden  at  the  back  of  the 
cottage.  It  seemed  that  those  stretchers  are  really  heavy 
things  for  any  two  men  to  carry.  .  .  .  We  had  been  three 
hours  on  our  journey! 

Well — I  sat  in  the  garden  watching  the  sun  rise.  To 
my  right  were  four  dead  men  neatly  laid  out  in  a  row 
under  a  tree.  Their  faces  had  not  been  covered  but  their 
eyes  were  closed,  their  cheeks,  hands,  and  feet  like  wax. 
In  front  of  them  the  young  man  who  had  sat  on  the  stove 
in  the  kitchen  all  night  and  watched  us  at  work  was  mowing 
the  tall  grass  with  a  scythe.  He  was  going  to  dig  graves. 
He  wore  a  white  shirt  and  white  trousers  and  had  long 
black  hair. 

"Why  didn't  they  take  you  for  a  soldier  ?"  I  asked  him. 

"Consumptive,"  he  said. 

I  had  washed  my  face,  hitched  up  my  trousers.  I  sat 
on  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  watched  the  dew  on  the  grass  and  the 
faint  blue  like  the  colour  of  a  bird's  egg  flood  the  sky, 
staining  it  pale  yellow.     All  firing  had  utterly  ceased. 


204  THE  DABK  FOEEST 

There  was  not  a  sound  except  the  birds  in  the  trees  who 
were  beginning  to  sing.  A  soldier,  a  fine  grave  figure  with 
a  black  beard,  was  washing  in  a  little  pool  at  the  end  of  the 
garden.  He  was  naked  save  for  his  white  drawers.  There 
was,  I  repeat,  not  a  sound.  Our  cottage  looked  so  peaceful 
— smoke  coming  from  the  chimney.  No  sign  of  the  sham- 
bles, no  sign  except  the  four  dead  men,  all  so  grave  and 
quiet.  The  blue  in  the  sky  grew  deeper.  Then  the  sun 
rose,  a  jolly  gold  ball  with  red  clouds  swinging  in  stream- 
ers away  from  it. 

The  birds  sang  above  my  head  so  loudly  that  the  boy  who 
was  mowing  looked  up  at  them.  The  soldier  finished  his 
washing,  put  on  his  shirt.  He  was  a  Mahommedan,  I  per- 
ceived, because  he  prayed,  very  solemnly,  his  face  to  the 
sun,  bowing  to  the  ground.  The  grass  fell  before  the  flash- 
ing scythe,  the  sun  flamed  behind  the  trees,  and  I  was  happy 
as  I  had  never  known  happiness  in  my  life  before. 

I  had  done  only  what  all  the  soldiers  are  doing  every  day 
of  their  lives.  I  had  been  only  where  they  always  were. 
.  .  .  But  I  felt  that  I  need  never  be  afraid  again.  Every 
one  knows  how  an  early  summer  morning  can  give  one 
confidence;  in  my  happiness,  God  forgive  me,  I  thought 
that  my  struggles  were  at  an  end,  that  I  had  met  my  enemy 
and  defeated  him  .  .  .  that  I  was  worthy  and  able  to  de- 
fend Marie. 

These  things  may  seem  foolish  now  when  one  knows  what 
followed  them,  but  the  happiness  of  that  morning  at  least 
was  real.  Perhaps  all  over  Europe  there  were  men,  at  that 
moment,  happy  as  I  was,  because  they  had  proved  something 
to  themselves.     Then  Nikitin  called  to  me,  laughing. 

"Tea,  'Mr.'  and  bulki  (white  bread)  and  sausage  ?" 

"All  right,  I'm  coming,"  I  answered.     "Listen,  goluh- 


ONE  OTGHT  206 

chik/*  I  called  to  the  soldier.  "Bring  me  some  water  in 
your  kettle.    I'll  wash  my  hands." 

He  came,  smiling,  towards  me. 

I  have  given  the  incidents  of  this  night  in  great  detail 
for  my  own  satisfaction,  because  I  wish  to  forget  nothing. 
To  others  the  little  adventure  must  seem  trivial,  but  to 
myself  it  represented  the  climax  of  a  chain  of  events. 


PART  TWO 


PART  TWO 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    LOVEES 

SEMYONOV  and  Marie  Ivanovna  did  not  offer  us  a 
picture  of  idealised  love — they  did  not  offer  us  a  pic- 
ture of  anything,  and  although  they  were,  both  of  them, 
most  certainly  changed,  they  could  not  be  said  in  any  way 
to  do  what  the  Otriad  expected  of  them.  The  Otriad  quite 
frankly  expected  them  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves.  To 
expect  that  of  Semyonov  at  any  time  showed  a  lamentable 
lack  of  interest  in  human  character,  but,  as  I  have  already 
said,  our  Otriad  was  always  excited  by  results  rather  than 
causes.  Semyonov  had  never  shown  himself  ashamed  of 
anything,  and  he  most  certainly  did  not  intend  to  begin 
now.  He  had  never  disguised  his  love  for  Marie  Ivanovna 
and  now  she  was  his  "spoils" — won  by  his  own  strong 
piratical  hand  from  the  good  but  rather  feeble  bark  Trench- 
ard — he  manifested  his  scorn  of  us  more  openly  than  ever. 
He  seemed  to  have  grown  rather  stronger  and  stouter 
during  these  last  months,  and  his  square  stolidity  was  a 
thing  at  which  to  marvel.  Had  he  been  taller,  had  his 
beard  been  pointed  rather  than  square,  he  would  have  been 
graceful  and  even  picturesque — but  his  figure,  as  he  strode 
along,  showed  foursquare,  as  though  it  had  been  hewn  out 
of  wood;  one  of  those  pale,  almost  white,  honey-coloured 

209 


210  THE  DARK  FOREST 

woods  would  give  the  effect  of  his  fair  beard  and  eyebrows. 
His  thick  red  lips  were  more  startling  than  ever,  curved  as 
they  usually  were  in  cynical  contempt  of  some  foolish  vic- 
tim.   How  he  did  despise  us ! 

When  one  of  our  childish  quarrels  arose  at  meal-times  he 
would  say  nothing,  but  would  continue  stolidly  his  serious 
business  of  eating.  He  was  very  fond  of  his  food,  which 
he  ate  in  the  greediest  manner.  When  the  quarrel  was 
subsiding,  as  it  usually  did,  into  the  first  glasses  of  tea, 
he  would  look  up,  watch  us  with  his  contemptuous  blue 
eyes,  laugh  and  say:  "Well,  and  now?  .  .  .  Who  is  it 
next  ?" — and  every  one  would  be  clumsily  embarrassed. 

We  were  often,  as  are  all  Russian  companies,  ridiculously 
amused  about  nothing.  At  the  most  serious  crises  we  would, 
like  Gayeff  in  "The  Cherry  Orchard,"  suddenly  break  into 
stupid  bursts  of  laughter,  quite  aimless  but  with  a  great  deal 
of  sincerity.  Whirls  of  laughter  would  invade  our  table. 
"Oh,  do  look  at  Goga !"  some  one  would  say,  and  there  we 
all  were,  perhaps  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour!  Semyonov, 
strangely  enough,  shared  this  childish  habit,  and  there  was 
nothing  odder  than  to  see  the  man  lose  control  of  himself, 
double  himself  up,  laugh  until  the  tears  ran  down  his  face 
— ^simply  at  nothing  at  all ! 

The  truth  is  that  now  I  was  very  far  from  hating  him. 
There  were  moments,  certainly,  when  he  was  rude  to  the 
Sisters,  when  he  was  abominably  greedy,  when  he  was  ruth- 
lessly selfish,  when  he  poured  scorn  upon  me ;  at  such  times 
I  thought  him,  as  Trenchard  has  expressed  it,  a  "beastly" 
man.  He  certainly  had  no  great  opinion  of  myself.  "You 
think  yourself  very  clever,  Ivan  Andreievitch.  Yes,  you 
think  you're  watching  all  of  us  and  studying  all  our  char- 
acters. And  I  suppose  there'll  be  a  book  one  day,  another 
of  those  books  by  Englishmen  about  poor  Russians — and 


THE  LOVERS  211 

you'll  flatter  yourself  that  now  at  last  one  true  picture  has 
been  given  .  .  .  but  let  me  tell  you  that  you'll  never  know 
anything  really  about  us  so  long  as  you're  a  sentimentalist !" 

Yes,  there  were  moments  when  I  hated  him,  but  those 
moments  never  continued  for  long.  For  one  thing  one 
could  not  hate  so  magnificent,  so  honest,  so  uncompromising, 
so  efficient  a  worker!  He  was  worthy  of  some  very  high 
position  in  the  army,  and  he  could  certainly  have  attained 
any  height  had  he  chosen.  He  had  a  genius  for  compelling 
other  men  to  obey  him,  he  was  never  perturbed  by  unex- 
pected mischance,  he  paid  no  attention  at  all  to  what  other 
people  thought  of  him,  and  he  seemed  incapable  of  fatigue. 
I  often  wondered  what  he  was  doing  here,  why  he  had 
chosen  so  small  an  Otriad  as  ours  in  which  to  work,  why  he 
stayed  with  us  when  he,  so  openly,  despised  us  all.  Until 
the  arrival  of  Marie  Ivanovna  there  was  no  answer  to  these 
questions — after  that  the  answer  was  obvious  enough. 
Again,  one  could  not  hate  a  man  of  his  sterling  independ- 
ence of  character.  We  were,  all  of  us  I  think,  emotionalists, 
of  one  kind  or  another,  and  went  up  and  down  in  our  feel- 
ings, alliances,  severances,  trusts  and  distrusts,  as  a  ther- 
mometer goes  up  and  down.  We  were  good  enough  people 
in  our  way,  but  we  were  most  certainly  not  "a  strong  lot." 
Even  Nikitin,  the  best  of  the  rest  of  us,  was  a  dreamy 
idealist,  far  enough  from  life  as  it  was  and  quite  unprepared 
to  come  down  from  his  dreams  and  see  things  as  they  were. 

But  Semyonov  never  relaxed  for  an  instant  from  his 
position.  He  asked  no  man's  help  nor  advice,  minded  no 
man's  scorn,  sought  no  man's  love.  During  my  experience 
of  him  I  saw  him  moved  only  once  by  an  overmastering 
emotion,  and  that  was,  of  course,  his  love  for  Marie  Ivan- 
ovna. That,  I  believe,  did  master  him,  but  deep  down, 
deep  down,  he  kept  his  rebellions,  his  anxieties,  his  sur- 


212  THE  DAEK  FOKEST 

raises ;  only  as  the  light  of  a  burning  house  is  seen  by  men, 
pale  and  faint  upon  the  sky  many  miles  from  the  conflagra- 
tion, did  we  catch  signs  of  his  trouble.  If  I  had  not  had 
those  talks  with  Trenchard  and  read  his  diary  I  should 
have  known  nothing.  Even  now  I  can  offer  no  solu- 
tion. .  .  . 

Meanwhile  he  showed  fiercely  and  openly  enough  his  love 
for  Marie  Ivanovna.  He  behaved  to  her  with  the  vulgarest 
ostentation,  as  a  rich  merchant  behaves  when  he  has 
snatched  some  priceless  picture  from  a  defeated  rival.  As 
he  laughed  at  us  he  seemed  to  say :  "Now,  I  have  really  a 
thing  of  value  here.  You  are,  all  of  you,  too  stupid  to 
realise  this,  but  you  must  take  my  word  for  it.  Show  your- 
self off,  my  dear,  and  let  them  all  see !" 

Marie  Ivanovna  most  certainly  did  not  "show  herself 
off."  The  beginning  of  his  trouble  was  that  he  could  not 
do  with  her  as  he  pleased.  She  had  fallen  into  his  hands 
so  easily  that  he  thought,  I  suppose,  that  "she  had  been 
dying  of  love  for  him"  from  the  first  moment  of  seeing 
him.  But  this  was  I  believe  very  far  from  the  truth.  My 
impression  of  her  acceptance  of  him  was  that  she  had  done 
it  "with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  something  else."  That  she 
had  not  realised  all  the  consequences  of  accepting  him  any 
more  than  she  had  realised  the  consequences  of  her  accept- 
ing Trenchard  was  obvious  from  the  first.  She  simply  was 
ignorant  of  life,  and  at  the  same  time  wanted  to  cram  into 
her  hands  the  full  sense  of  it  (as  one  crushes  rose-leaves) 
as  quickly  as  possible.  She  admired  Semyonov — it  may  be 
that  she  loved  him ;  but  she  certainly  had  not  surrendered 
herself  to  him,  and  in  her  lively  ignorant  way  she  was  as 
strong  as  he. 

During  the  first  weeks  of  her  engagement  she  was,  as 
she  had  been  at  her  first  arrival  amongst  us,  as  happy  and 


THE  LOVERS  213 

light-hearted  as  a  child.  She  knew  that  we  disapproved 
of  her  treatment  of  Trenchard,  but  she  thought  that  we  must 
see,  as  she  did,  that  "she  had  behaved  in  the  only  possible 
way."  Once  again  she  was  straight  and  honest  to  the  world 
— and  she  could  behave  now  like  a  real  friend  of  her  John. 
That  strange  irrational  temper  that  she  had  shown  during 
the  Retreat  had  now  entirely  disappeared.  She  approved 
of  us  all  and  wished  us  to  approve  of  her — which  we,  as  we 
were  Russians  and  could  not  possibly  dislike  pleasant  agree- 
able people  whatever  there  might  be  against  them,  speedily 
did.  She  was  charming  to  us.  I  can  see  her  now,  leaning 
her  chin  on  her  hands ;  looking  at  us,  the  colour,  shell-pink, 
coming  and  going  delicately  in  her  cheek,  like  flame  behind 
china.  Her  delicacy,  her  height,  her  slender  figure,  her 
wide  childish  eyes,  her  charmingly  ugly  large  mouth  and 
short  nose,  her  black  hair,  the  appeal  of  her  ignorance  and 
strength  and  credulity — ah!  she  won  our  hearts  simply 
whenever  she  pleased!  Of  course  we  disliked  her  when 
she  was  rude  to  us,  our  self-respect  demanded  it,  but  let 
her  "come  round"  and  round  we  came  too. 

Her  treatment  of  Semyonov  was  strange.  She  was  quite 
fearless,  laughing  at  his  temper,  his  sarcasm,  rebuking  his 
selfishness  and  bad  manners,  avoiding  his  coarse  and  un- 
hesitating love-making,  and  above  all,  trusting  him  in  the 
oddest  way  as  though,  in  spite  of  his  faults,  she  placed  all 
her  reliance  on  him  and  knew  that  he  would  not  fail  her. 
Nothing  annoyed  him  more  than  her  behaviour  to  Trench- 
ard.  It  would,  of  course,  be  absurd  to  say  that  he  was 
jealous  of  Trenchard;  he  despised  the  man  too  deeply  and 
was,  himself,  too  sure  of  his  lady  to  know  jealousy ;  but  he 
was  irritated  by  the  attention  paid  to  him,  irritated  even 
by  the  attention  he  himself  paid  to  him. 


214  THE  DARK  FOREST 

"Wherever  I  go  there's  that  man,"  he  said  once  to  me. 
"Why  doesn't  he  go  back  to  his  own  country  ?" 

"I  suppose,"  I  would  answer  hotly,  "he  has  other  things 
to  do  than  to  consider  your  individual  wishes,  Alexei  Petro- 
vitch." 

Then  he  would  laugh:  "Well,  well,  Ivan  Andreievitch, 
you  sentimentalists  all  hang  together." 

"Why  can't  you  leave  him  alone?"  I  remember  that  I 
continued. 

"Because  he  doesn't  leave  me  alone,"  he  answered  shortly. 

It  was,  of  course,  Marie  Ivanovna  who  brought  them  to- 
gether. She  could  not  see,  or  rather  she  would  not  see,  that 
friendship  between  two  such  men  was  an  impossibility.  For 
herself  she  liked  Trenchard  better  than  she  had  ever  done. 
She  had  now  no  responsibility  towards  him;  we  were  all 
fond  of  him,  pleased  ourselves  by  saying  that  "he  was  more 
Russian  than  English."  The  Sisters  mended  his  clothes, 
cared  for  his  stomach,  and  listened  with  pleased  gravity 
to  his  innocent  chatter.  Marie  Ivanovna  was  now  really 
proud  of  him.  There  were  great  stories  of  the  courage 
and  enterprise  he  had  shown  during  the  night  when  he  had 
been  with  Nikitin.  I^ikitin,  in  his  lofty  romantic  fashion, 
spoke  of  him  as  though  he  had  been  the  hero  of  the  Russian 
army.  Trenchard  was,  of  course,  quite  unspoiled  by  this 
praise  and  popularity.  He  remained  for  me  at  least  very 
much  the  same  innocent,  clumsy,  pathetic,  and  frequently 
irritating  figure  that  he  had  been  at  the  beginning.  I  will 
honestly  confess  that  I  was  often  heartily  tired  of  his 
Glebeshire  stories,  tired  too  of  a  certain  childish  obstinacy 
with  which  he  clung  to  his  generally  crude  and  half-baked 
opinions. 

But  then  I  do  not  care  to  be  contradicted  by  people  of 
whom,  intellectually,  I  have  a  low  estimation;  it  is  one 


THE  LOVEKS  215' 

of  my  most  -unfortunate  weaknesses.  I  had  no  opinion  of 
Trenchard's  intellect  at  all,  and  in  that  I  was  quite  wrong. 
Semyonov  at  this  time  flung  Nikitin,  Audrey  Vassilievitch, 
Trenchard  and  myself  into  one  basket.  We  were  all  "crazy 
romantics"  and  there  came  an  occasion,  which  I  have  rea- 
son most  clearly  to  remember,  when  he  told  us  what  he 
thought  of  us.  We  were  together,  Semyonov,  Nikitin, 
Trenchard  and  I,  after  breakfast,  smoking  cigarettes,  en- 
joying half  an  hour's  idleness  before  setting  about  our 
various  business.  It  was  a  blazing  hot  morning  and  the  air 
quivered,  like  a  silver  curtain  before  our  eyes,  separating 

us  from  the  dim  blue  forest  of  S beyond  the  river,  the 

^Nestor  itself,  the  deep  green  slopes  of  our  own  hill.  We  had 
been  silent,  then  Trenchard  said  a  foolish  thing:  "War 
brings  all  the  best  out  of  people,  I  think,"  he  said.  God 
knows  what  private  line  of  thought  he  had  been  pursuing, 
some  sentimental  reflections,  I  suppose,  that  were  in  him 
perfectly  honest  and  sincere.  But  he  did  not  look  his  best 
that  morning,  sitting  back  in  his  chair  with  his  mouth  open, 
his  forehead  damp  with  the  heat,  his  tunic  up  about  his 
neck  and  a  rather  dirty  blue  pocket-handkerchief  in  his 
hand. 

I  saw  Semyonov's  lip  curl. 

"Yes.  That's  very  interesting,  Mr.,"  he  said.  "I'm  glad 
at  any  rate  that  we've  had  the  honour  of  seeing  the  best  of 
yoiu     That's  very  pleasant  to  know." 

^^What  I  mean — "  said  Trenchard,  blushing  and  stam- 
mering.    "What  .  .  .  that  is " 

"I  agree  with  Mr.,"  suddenly  said  Nikitin,  who  had  been 
dreamily  watching  the  blue  forest.  "War  does  bring  out 
the  best  in  the  human  character — always." 

Semyonov  turned  smilingly  to  him.  "Yes,  Vladimir 
Stepanovitch,  we  know  your  illusions.     Forgive  me  for 


216  THE  DAEK  FOREST 

insisting  that  they  are  illusions.  I  would  not  disturb  your 
romantic  happiness  for  the  world." 

"You  can't  disturb  me,  Alexei  Petrovitch,"  Nikitin 
answered  sleepily.     "What  a  hot  morning!" 

"No,"  said  Semyonov.  "I  would  be  very  wrong  to  dis- 
turb you.  Believe  me,  I've  never  tried.  It's  very  agree- 
able to  me  to  see  you  and  Mr.  so  happy  together  and  it 
must  be  pleasant  for  both  of  you  to  feel  that  you've  got  a 
nice  God  all  of  your  own  who  sleeps  a  good  deal  but  still, 
on  the  whole,  gives  you  what  you  want.  We  may  wonder 
a  little  what  Mr.  has  done  to  be  so  favoured — never  very 
much  I  fancy — but  still  I  like  the  friendliness  and  comfort 
of  it  and  I'm  really  lucky  to  have  the  good  fortune  of  your 
acquaintance.  So  nice  for  Russia  too  to  have  plenty  of 
people  about  who  don't  do  any  work  nor  take  any  trouble 
about  anything  because  they've  got  a  nice  fat  God  who'll  do 
it  all  for  them  if  they'll  only  be  patient.  That's  why  we're 
beating  the  Germans  so  handsomely — ^the  poor  Germans, 
who  only,  ignorant  heathens  as  they  are,  believe  in  them- 
selves." 

He  looked  at  us  all  with  a  friendly  patronising  contempt. 

"That's  your  point  of  view,  Alexei  Petrovitch,"  Nikitin 
answered  rather  hotly.  "Think  as  you  please  of  course. 
But  there's  more  in  life  than  you  can  see — ^there  is  indeed." 

"Of  course  there  is,"  said  Semyonov  lazily,  "much  more. 
I'lfi  an  ignorant,  rough  man.  I  like  things  as  they  are 
and  make  the  best  of  them,  so,  of  course,  I'm  not  clever. 
Mr.'s  clever,  aren't  you,  Mr.  ?  All  the  same  he  doesn't 
know  how  to  put  his  boots  on  properly.  If  he  put  his 
boots  on  better  and  knew  less  about  God  he  might  be  of 
more  use  at  the  Front,  perhap's.  That's  only  my  idea,  and 
I  daresay  I'm  wrong.  .  .  .  All  the  same,  for  the  sake  of 
the  comfort  and  the  pockets  of  all  of  us  I  do  hope  you'll 


THE  LOVEES  217 

really  rouse  your  God  and  ask  Him  to  do  something  sensi- 
ble— something  with  method  in  it  and  a  few  more  bullets 
in  it  and  a  little  more  eflSciency  in  it.  You  might  ask  Him 
to  do  what  He  can.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  us,  laughing;  then  he  said  to  Trenchard, 
"But  don't  you  fear,  Mr.  You'll  go  to  heaven  all  right. 
Even  though  it's  the  wise  men  who  succeed  in  this  world, 
I  don't  doubt  it's  the  fools  who  have  their  way  in  the 
next." 

He  left  us.  ^ 

Semyonov  was  with  every  new  day  more  baffled  by  Marie 
Ivanovna.  In  the  first  place  she  quietly  refused  to  obey 
him.  We  were  now  much  occupied  with  the  feeding  of 
the  peasants  in  a  village  stricken  with  cholera  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river.  A  gloomy  enough  business  it  was  and  I 
shall  have,  very  shortly,  to  speak  of  it  in  detail.  For  the 
moment  it  is  enough  to  say  that  two  of  us  went  off  every 
morning  with  a  kitchen  on  wheels,  distributed  the  food,  and 
returned  in  the  afternoon.  Semyonov  intensely  disliked 
Marie  Ivanovna's  share  in  this  work,  but  he  could  not,  of 
course,  object  to  her  taking,  with  the  other  Sisters,  the  risks 
and  unpleasantness  of  it.  He  made,  whenever  it  was  pos- 
sible, objections,  found  her  work  at  the  hospital  where  he 
himself  was,  occupied  her  in  every  possible  way.  But  he 
did  this  against  her  will.  She  seemed  to  find  a  very  especial 
pleasure  and  excitement  in  the  cholera  work;  she  wished 
often  to  take  the  place  of  some  other  Sister.  Indeed  every- 
thing on  the  other  side  of  the  river  seemed  to  have  a  great 
fascination  for  her.  She  herself  told  me:  "The  moment  I 
cross  the  bridge  I  feel  as  though  I  were  on  enchanted 
ground."  On  the  occasions  when  I  accompanied  her  to  the 
cholera  village  she  was  radiant,  so  happy  that  she  seemed 
to  have  nothing  further  in  the  world  to  desire.    She  herself 


218  THE  DAKK  FOKEST 

was  puzzled.  "What  is  it?"  she  said  to  me.  "Is  it  the 
forest?  It  must  be,  I  think,  the  forest.  I  would  remain 
on  this  side  for  ever  if  I  had  my  way." 

When  I  saw  Semyonov's  anxiety  about  her  I  could  not 

but  remember  that  little  scene  at  the  battle  of  S when 

he  had  taken  her  off  with  him,  leaving  Trenchard  in  so 
pitiful  a  condition.  Certainly  Time  brings  in  his  revenges ! 
And  Marie  Ivanovna  would  listen  to  nothing  that  he  said. 

"I  want  you  at  the  hospital  this  morning,"  he  would  say. 

"Do  you  really  want  me?"  she  would  ask,  looking  up, 
laughing,  in  his  face. 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"Well,  you  should  have  told  me  last  night.  This  morn- 
ing I  go  with  Anna  Petrovna  to  the  cholera.  All  is  ar- 
ranged." 

"I'm  afraid  you  must  change  your  plans." 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"Goga  may  go.  .  .  ." 

"No,  I  wish  to  go." 

And  she  went.  He  had  certainly  never  before  in  his  life 
been  thus  defied.  He  simply  did  not  know  what  to  do  about 
it.  If  he  had  thought  that  bullying  would  frighten  her  he 
would,  I  believe,  have  bullied  her,  but  he  knew  quite  well 
that  it  wouldn't.  And  then,  as  I  now  began  to  perceive  (I 
had  at  first  thought  otherwise),  he  was  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  experiencing  something  deeper  and  more  confusing 
than  his  customary  animal  passions.  He  may  at  first  have 
wanted  Marie  Ivanovna  as  he  wanted  his  dinner  or  his 
supper  .  .  .  now  he  wanted  her  differently.  New  emo- 
tions, surprising  confusing  emotions  stirred  in  him.  At 
least  that  is  how  I  interpret  the  uneasiness,  the  hesitation, 
which  I  now  seemed  to  perceive  in  him.  He  was  no  longer 
sure  of  himself. 


THE  LOVEKS  219 

I  witnessed  just  at  this  time  a  little  scene  that  surprised 
me.  I  had  been  in  the  bandaging  room  alone  one  evening, 
cutting  up  bandages.  I  was  going  through  the  passage  into 
the  other  part  of  the  house  when  a  sound  stopped  me.  I 
could  not  avoid  seeing  beyond  the  open  door  a  little  scene 
that  happened  so  swiftly  that  I  could  neither  retire  nor 
advance. 

Marie  Ivanovna  and  Semyonov  were  coming  together 
towards  the  bandaging  room.  She  was  in  front  of  him 
when  he  put  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Do  you  love  me  ?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

She  turned  round  to  him,  laughing. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  looking  at  him. 

"Then  kiss  me." 

"No,  not  now." 

"Why  not  now?" 

"I  don't  want  to." 

"Why  don't  you  want  to  ?" 

She  shook  her  head,  still  laughing  into  his  eyes. 

"But  if  I  command  you  ?" 

"Ah!  command!  .  .  .  Then  I  certainly  will  not." 

His  hand  tightened  on  her  arm  and  she  did  not  draw 
away. 

"Kiss  me." 

"No." 

"I  say  yea." 

"I  say  no." 

He  suddenly  caught  her,  held  her  to  him  as  though  he 
would  kill  her  and  kissed  her  furiously,  on  her  eyes,  her 
mouth,  her  hair.  With  his  violence  he  pushed  back  her 
head-dress.  I  could  see  his  back  bent  like  a  bow,  and  his 
thick  short  legs  wide  apart,  every  muscle  taut.  She  lay 
quite  motionless,  as  though  asleep  in  his  arms,  giving  him 


220  THE  DARK  FOREST 

no  response — then  quite  suddenly  she  flung  her  hands  round 
his  neck  and  kissed  him  as  passionately  as  he  had  kissed 
her.     At  last  they  parted,  both  of  them  laughing. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  then  with  a  gentleness  and  courtesy 
that  I  had  never  seen  in  him  before  nor  dreamed  that  he 
possessed,  very  softly  kissed  her  hand. 

"I  love  you  and — and  you  love  me,"  he  said. 

"Yes  ...  I  love  you,"  she  answered  gravely.  "At  least, 
part  of  me  does." 

"It  shall  be  all  of  you  soon,"  he  answered. 

"If  there's  time  enough,"  she  replied. 

"Time!  .  .  .  I'll  follow  you  wherever  you  go " 

"I  really  believe  you  will,"  she  answered,  laughing  again. 
They  waited  then,  looking  at  one  another.  A  bell  rang. 
"Ah!  I'm  hungry.  .  .  .  Supper  time.  .  .  ."  To  my 
relief  they  passed  away  from  the  bandaging  room  towards 
the  other  part  of  the  house. 

Meanwhile  his  irritation  at  Marie  Ivanovna's  kindness 
to  Trenchard  increased  with  every  hour.  His  attitude  to 
the  man  had  changed  since  Trenchard's  night  at  the  Posi- 
tion; he  was  vexed,  I  think,  to  hear  that  the  fellow  had 
proved  himself  a  man — and  a  practical  man  with  common 
sense.  Semyonov  was  honest  about  this.  He  did  not  doubt 
Nikitin's  word,  he  even  congratulated  Trenchard,  but  he 
certainly  disliked  him  more  than  ever.  He  thought,  I 
suppose,  as  he  had  thought  about  Nikitin:  "How  can  a 
man  with  his  wits  about  him  be  at  the  same  time  such  a 
fool  ?"  And  then  he  saw  that  Marie  Ivanovna  was  delighted 
with  Trenchard's  little  piece  of  good  luck.  She  laughed 
at  Semyonov  about  it.  "We  all  know  you're  a  very  brave 
man,"  she  cried.  "But  you're  not  so  brave  as  Mr."  And 
Semyonov,  because  he  knew  that  Trenchard  was  a  fool 
and  that  he  himself  was  not,  was  vexed,  as  a  bull  is  vexed 


THE  LOVEKS  221 

by  a  red  flag.  These  things  made  him  think  a  great  deal 
about  Trenchard.  I  have  seen  him  watching  him  with 
angry  and  puzzled  gaze  as  though  he  would  satisfy  himself 
why  this  gnat  of  a  man  worried  him ! 

Then,  finally,  was  Andrey  Vassilievitch.  .  .  .  The  little 
man  had  not  given  me  much  of  his  company  during  these 
last  weeks.     I  fancy  that  since  that  night  at  the  battle  of 

S when  he  had  revealed  his  terror  he  had  been  shy  of 

me  although,  God  knows,  he  had  no  need  to  be.  He  never 
forgot  if  any  one  had  seen  him  in  an  unfortunate  position, 
and,  although  he  bore  me  no  grudge,  he  was  nervous  and 
embarrassed  with  me.  It  happened,  however,  that  during 
this  same  week  of  which  I  have  been  speaking  I  had  a 
conversation  with  him.  I  was  standing  alone  by  the  Cross 
watching  a  long  trail  of  wagons  cross  the  bridge  far  be- 
neath me,  watching  too  a  high  bank  of  black  cloud  that  was 
passing  away  from  the  sky  above  the  forest,  blown  by  a 
wind  that  rolled  the  surface  of  the  river  into  silver.  He 
too  had  come  to  look  at  the  view  and  was  surprised  and 
disturbed  at  finding  me  there.  Of  course  he  was  exag- 
gerated in  expressions  of  pleasure:  "Why,  Ivan  Andrei- 
evitch,  this  is  delightful !"  he  cried.  "If  I  only  had  known 
we  might  have  walked  here  together !" 

We  sat  down  on  the  stone  seat. 

"You  don't  think  it  will  rain  ?"  he  asked  anxiously.  "No, 
those  clouds  are  going  away,  I  see.  Well  .  .  .  this  is 
delightful  .  .  ."  and  then  sat  there  gloomily  looking  in 
front  of  him. 

I  could  see  that  he  was  depressed. 

'^ell,  Andrey  Vassilievitch,"  I  said  to  him.  "You're 
depressed  about  something?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  very  gloomily  indeed.  "I  have  many 
unhappy  hours,  Ivan  Andreievitch." 


222  THE  DAKK  FOEEST 

I  did  not  get  up  and  leave  him  as  I  very  easily  might 
have  done.  I  had  had,  since  the  night  when  Nikitin  had 
spoken  to  me  so  frankly,  a  desire  to  know  the  little  man's 
side  of  that  affair.  In  some  curious  fashion  that  silent  plain 
wife  of  his  had  been  very  frequently  in  my  thoughts ;  there 
had  not  been  enough  in  l^ikitin's  account  to  explain  to  me 
his  passion  for  her,  and  yet  her  ghost,  as  though  evoked 
by  the  memories  both  of  Nikitin  and  her  husband,  had 
seemed  to  me,  sometimes,  to  be  present  with  us.  .  .  . 

I  waited. 

"Tell  me  frankly,"  Audrey  Vassilievitch  said  at  last, 
"am  I  of  any  use  here  ?" 

"Of  use  ?"  I  repeated,  taken  by  surprise. 

"Yes.  Am  I  doing  only  what  any  one  else  can  do  as  well  ? 
Would  it  be  better  perhaps  if  another  were  here  ?" 

"l^Oj  certainly  not,"  I  answered  warmly.  "Your  busi- 
ness training  is  of  the  greatest  value  to  us.  Molozov  has 
said  to  me  'that  he  does  not  know  what  we  .should  do  with- 
out you.' " 

(This  was  not  strictly  true.) 

"Ah!"  the  little  man  was  greatly  pleased.  "I  am  glad, 
very  glad — ^to  hear  what  you  say.  Semyonov  made  me 
feel " 

"You  should  not  be  influenced,"  I  hurriedly  interrupted 
him,  "by  what  Semyonov  thinks.     It  is  of  no  importance." 

"He  has  a  bad  character,"  Audrey  Vassilievitch  said  sud- 
denly with  great  excitement,  "a  bad  character.  And  why 
cannot  he  leave  me  alone  ?  Why  should  he  laugh  always  ? 
I  do  my  best.  I  am  quiet  and  not  in  his  way.  I  can  do 
things  that  he  cannot.  I  am  not  big  as  he  but  at  least  I  do 
not  rob  men  of  their  women." 

He  was  shaking  with  anger,  his  head  trembling  and  his 
hands  quivering — it  was  difficult  not  to  smile. 


THE  LOVERS  223 

"You  must  not  listen  nor  notice  nor  think  of  it,"  I  said 
firmly.  "We  are  grateful  for  your  work — all  of  us.  Sem- 
yonov  laughs  at  us  alL" 

"That  poor  Marie  Ivanovna,"  he  burst  out.  "She  does 
not  know.  She  is  ignorant  of  life.  At  first  I  was  angry 
with  her  but  now  I  see  that  she  is  helpless.  There  will  be 
terrible  things  afterwards,  Ivan  Andreievitch !"  he  cried. 

"I  think  she  understands  him  better  than  we  do." 

"I  have  never,"  he  said  vehemently,  "hated  a  man 
in  my  life  as  I  hate  him."  But  in  spite  of  his  passionate 
declaration  he  was  obviously  reassured  by  my  defence  of 
him.  He  was  quiet  suddenly,  looked  at  the  view  mildly 
and,  in  a  moment,  thought  me  the  best  friend  he  had  in  the 
world — in  the  Russian  manner. 

"You  see,  Ivan  Andreievitch,"  he  said,  looking  at  me 
with  the  eyes  of  an  unnaturally  wise  baby,  "that  I  cannot 
help  wishing  that  my  wife  were  here  to  advise  Marie  Ivan- 
ovna.  She  would  have  loved  my  wife  very  much,  as  every 
one  did,  and  would  have  confided  in  her.  That  would  have 
helped  a  girl  who,  like  Marie  Ivanovna,  is  ignorant  of  the 
world  and  the  loves  of  men." 

"You  miss  your  wife  very  much?"  I  asked. 

"There  is  not  a  moment  of  the  day  but  I  do  not  think 
of  her,"  he  answered  very  solemnly,  staring  in  front  of 
him.  "That  must  seem  strange  to  you  who  did  not  know 
her,  and  even  I  sometimes  think  it  is  not  good.  But  what 
to  do  ?  She  was  a  woman  so  remarkable  that  no  one  who 
knew  her  can  forget." 

"I  have  often  been  told  that  every  one  who  knew  her 
loved  her,"  I  said. 

"Ah!  you  have  heard  that.  .  .  .  They  talk  of  her,  of 
course.  She  will  always  be  remembered."  His  eyes  shone 
with   pleasure.      "Yes,   every   one  loved  her.     I   myself 


224  THE  DARK  FOEEST 

loved  her  with  a  passion  that  nothing  can  ever  change. 
And  why  ?  .  .  .  I  cannot  tell  you — unless  it  were  that  she 
was  the  only  person  I  have  known  who  did  not  wish  me 
another  kind  of  man.  I  could  be  myself  with  her  and  know 
that  she  still  cared  for  me.  ...  I  will  not  pretend  to  you, 
Ivan  Andreievitch,  that  I  think  myself  a  fine  man,"  he 
continued.  "I  have  never  thought  myself  so.  When  I  was 
very  young  I  envied  tall  men  and  handsome  men  and  men 
who  knew  what  was  the  best  thing  to  do  without  thinking 
of  it.  I  have  always  known  that  people  would  only  come 
to  me  for  what  I  have  got  to  give  and  I  have  pretended  that 
I  do  not  care.  And  once  I  had  an  English  merchant  as 
my  guest.  He  was  very  agreeable  and  pleasant  to  me — 
and  then  by  chance  I  overheard  him  say:  ^Ah,  Audrey 
Vassilievitch !  A  vulgar  little  snobP  That  is  perhaps 
what  I  am — I  do  not  know — we  are  all  what  God  pleases. 
But  I  had  mistresses,  I  had  friends,  acquaintances.  They 
despised  me.  They  left  me  always  for  some  one  finer. 
They  say  that  we  Russians  care  too  much  what  others  think 
of  us — ^but  when  in  your  own  house  people — ^your  friends — 
say  such  things  of  you  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off,  then,  smiling,  continued: 

"My  wife  came.  There  was  something  in  me,  just  as 
I  was,  that  she  cared  for.  She  did  not  passionately  love 
me,  but  she  loved  me  with  her  heart  because  she  saw  that  I 
needed  love.  She  always  saw  people  just  as  they  were. 
.  .  .  And  I  understood.  I  understood  from  the  beginning 
exactly  what  I  was  to  her.  .  .  ." 

He  paused  again,  put  his  hand  on  my  knee,  then  spoke, 
looking  very  serious  with  his  comic  little  nose  and  mouth 
like  the  nose  and  mouth  of  a  poodle.  "I  had  a  friend,  Ivan 
Andreievitch.  A  fine  man.  .  .  .  He  loved  my  wife  and 
my  wife  loved  him.     He  was  not  vulgar.     He  had  a  fine 


THE  LOVEKS  225 

taste,  he  was  handsome  and  clever.  What  was  I  to  do  ?  I 
knew  that  my  wife  loved  him,  and  she  must  be  happy.  I 
knew  that  I  owed  her  everything  because  of  all  that  she  had 
done  for  me.  I  helped  them  in  their  love.  .  .  .  For  five 
years  I  wished  them  well.  Do  you  think  it  was  easy  for 
me  ?  I  suffered,  Ivan  Andreievitch,  the  tortures  of  hell.  I 
was  jealous,  God  forgive  me!  How  jealous!  Sometimes 
alone  in  my  room  I  would  cry  all  night — not  a  fine  thing 
to  do.  But  then  how  should  I  act  ?  She  gave  him  what  she 
could  never  give  to  me.  She  loved  him  with  passion — for 
me  she  cared  as  good  women  care  for  the  poor.  I  was  foolish 
perhaps.  I  tried  to  be  as  they  were,  with  their  taste  and 
easy  judgments  ...  I  failed,  of  course.  What  could  I 
do  all  at  once  ?  One  is  as  God  has  pleased  from  the  begin- 
ning. Ah !  how  I  was  unhappy  those  five  years !  I  wished 
that  he  would  die  and  then  cursed  myself  for  wishing  it. 
And  yet  I  knew  that  I  had  something  that  he  had  not.  I 
needed  her  more  than  he,  and  she  knew  that.  Her  charm 
for  him  would  fade  perhaps  as  the  years  passed.  He  was 
a  passionate  man  who  had  loved  many  women.  For  me, 
as  she  well  knew,  it  would  never  pass. 

"She  died.  For  a  time  I  was  like  a  dead  man.  And  she 
was  not  enough  with  me.  I  talked  to  her  friends,  but  they 
had  not  known  her — ^not  as  she  was.  Only  one  had  known 
her  and  he  was  the  friend  whom  she  had  loved. 

"Of  course  he  found  me  as  he  had  always  done — ^tiresome, 
irritating,  of  vulgar  taste.  But  he,  too,  wanted  to  speak 
of  her.  And  so  we  were  drawn  together.  .  .  .  Now  .  .  . 
is  he  my  friend  ?  I  say  always  that  he  is.  I  say  to  myself : 
'Audrey  Vassilievitch,  he  is  your  best  friend' — but  I  am 
jealous.  Yes,  Ivan  Andreievitch,  I  am  jealous  of  him.  I 
think  *bat  perhaps  he  will  die  before  me  and  that  then — 
somewhere — together — they  will  laugh  at  me.    And  he  has 


226  THE  DAKK  FOKEST 

such  memories  of  her !  At  the  last  she  cried  his  name !  He 
is  so  much  a  grander  man  than  I!  Fine  in  every  way! 
Did  I  say  that  she  would  laugh  ?  'Eo,  no  .  .  .  that  never. 
But  she  will  say :  'Poor  Audrey  Vassilievitch !'  She  will 
pity  me !  .  .  .  I  think  that  I  would  be  happier  if  I  did  not 
see  my  friend.  But  I  cannot  leave  him.  .  .  .  We  talk  of 
her  often.  And  yet  he  despises  me  and  wonders  that  she 
can  have  loved  me.  .  .  ." 

I  had  a  fear  lest  Audrey  Vassilievitch  should  cry.  He 
seemed  so  desolate  there,  giving  strange  little  self-important 
coughs  and  sniffs,  beating  the  ground  with  his  smart  little 
military  boot. 

Across  the  river  the  black  wall  of  cloud  had  returned  and 

now  hung  above  the  forest  of  S ,  that  lay  sullenly,  in  its 

shadow,  forbidding  and  thick,  itself  like  a  cloud. 

The  world  was  cold,  the  Nestor  like  a  snake.  ...  I 
shivered,  seized  by  some  sudden  sense  of  coming  disaster 
and  trouble.    The  evenings  there  were  often  strangely  chill. 

"Look,"  cried  Audrey  Vassilievitch,  starting  to  his  feet. 
"There's  Marie  Ivanovna!" 

I  turned  and  saw  her  standing  there,  smiling  at  us, 
silently  and  without  movement,  like  an  apparition. 


CHAPTER  II 


MAEIE    IVANOVNA 


IT  was  on  July  23  that  I  first  entered  the  Forest  of 
S .     I  did  not,   I  remember,  pay  the  event  any 

especial  attention.  I  went  with  Anna  Petrovna  to  the 
cholera  village  that  is  on  the  outskirts  of  the  forest,  and  I 
recollect  that  we  hastened  back  because  that  evening  we 
were  to  celebrate  the  conclusion  of  the  first  six  months' 
work  of  our  Otriad.  Of  my  entrance  into  the  forest  I 
remember  absolutely  nothing;  it  seemed,  I  suppose,  an 
ordinary  enough  forest  to  me.  Of  the  festivities  in  the 
evening  I  have  a  very  clear  recollection.  I  remember  that 
it  was  the  loveliest  summer  weather,  not  too  hot,  with  a 
little  breeze  coming  up  from  the  river,  and  the  green 
glittering  on  every  side  of  us  with  the  quiver  of  flashing 
water.  In  the  little  garden  outside  our  house  a  table  had 
been  improvised  and  on  this  were  a  large  gilt  ikon,  a  vase 
of  flowers  in  a  hideous  purple  jar,  and  two  tall  candles 
whose  flames  looked  unreal  and  thin  in  the  sunlight.  There 
was  the  priest,  a  fine  stout  man  with  a  long  black  beard 
and  hair  falling  below  his  shoulders,  clothed  in  silk  of 
gold  and  purple,  waving  a  censer,  monotoning  the  prayers 
in  a  high  Russian  tenor,  with  one  eye  on  the  choir 
of  sanitars,  one  eye  on  the  candles  blown  by  the  wind, 
the  breeze  meanwhile  playing  irreverent  jests  on  his 
splendid  skirts  of  gold.  Then  there  was  the  congre- 
gation in  three  groups.    The  first  group — two  generals,  two 

227 


228  THE  DAKK  FOREST 

colonels,   four  or  five  other  officers,  the  Sisters   (Sister 

K bowing  and  crossing  herself  incessantly,  Anna  Pe- 

trovna  with  her  attention  obviously  on  the  dinner  cooking 
behind  a  tree  in  the  garden,  Marie  Ivanovna  looking  lovely 
and  happy  and  good),  ourselves — Molozov  official,  Semyo- 
nov  sarcastic,  Nikitin  in  a  dream,  Audrey  Vassilievitch 
busy  with  his  smart  uniform,  Trenchard  (forgotten  his 
sword,  his  blue  handkerchief  protruding  from  his  pocket) 
absorbed  by  the  ceremony,  myself  thinking  of  Trenchard, 
Goga — and  the  rest.  The  second  group — the  singing  sani- 
tars,  some  ten  of  them,  stout  and  healthy,  singing  as  Rus- 
sians do  with  complete  self-forgetfulness  and  a  rapturous 
happiness  in  front  of  them,  a  funny  little  man  with  spec- 
tacles and  a  sharp-pointed  beard,  once  a  schoolmaster,  now 
a  sanitar,  conducting  their  music  with  a  long  bony  finger — 
all  of  them  chanting  the  responses  with  perfect  precision 
and  harmony.  Third  group,  the  other  sanitars,  the  strang- 
est collection  of  faces,  wild,  savage  and  eastern:  Tartars, 
Lithuanians,  Mongolian,  mild  and  northern,  cold  and  west- 
em,  merry  and  human  from  Little  Russia,  gigantic  and 
fierce  from  the  Caucasus,  small  and  frozen  from  Archangel, 
one  or  two  civilised  and  superior  and  uninteresting  from 
Petrograd  and  Moscow. 

Over  the  wall  a  long  row  of  interested  Galician  peasants 
and  soldiers  passing  in  carts  or  on  horseback.  Seeing  the 
ikon,  the  priest,  the  blowing  candles,  hearing  the  singing 
they  would  take  off  their  hats,  cross  themselves,  for  a  mo- 
ment their  eyes  would  go  dreamy,  mild,  forgetful,  then  on 
their  hats  would  go  again,  back  they  would  turn  their 
horses,  cursing  them  up  the  hill,  chaffing  the  Galician  wo- 
men, down  deep  in  the  everyday  life  again. 

The  service  ended.  The  priest  turns  to  us,  the  gold 
Cross  is  raised,  we  advance  one  by  one:  the  generals,  the 


MARIE  IVANOVNA  229 

colonels,  the  lieutenants,  the  Sisters,  Semyonov,  Ifikitin, 
Goga,  then  the  choir,  then  the  sanitars,  even  to  hunch- 
backed Alesha,  who  is  always  given  the  dirtiest  work  to  do 
and  is  only  half  a  human  being;  one  by  one  we  kiss  the 
Cross,  the  candles  are  blown  out,  the  ikon  folded  up  and 
put  away  in  a  cardboard  box,  we  are  introduced  to  the  gen- 
erals, there  is  general  conversation,  and  the  stars  and  the 
moon  come  out  "blown  straight  up,  it  seems,  out  of  the 
bosom  of  the  Nestor.  .  .  ." 

It  was  a  very  happy  and  innocent  evening.  For  extract- 
ing the  utmost  happiness  possible  out  of  the  simplest  ma- 
terials the  Russians  have  surely  no  rivals.  How  our  gen- 
erals and  our  colonels  enjoyed  that  evening !  A  wonderful 
dinner  was  cooked  between  two  stones  in  the  garden — 
little  pig,  young  chickens,  horshtsh,  that  most  luxurious  of 
soups,  and  ices — yes,  and  ices.  Then  there  were  speeches, 
many,  many  glasses  of  tea,  strawberry  and  cherry  jam,  bis- 
cuits and  cigarettes.    We  were  all  very,  very  happy.  .  .  . 

It  was  arranged  on  the  morning  after  the  feast  that  I 
should  go  again  to  the  cholera  village  with  Marie  Ivanovna 
and  Semyonov.  Under  a  morning  of  a  blazing  relentless 
heat,  bars  of  light  ruling  the  sky,  we  started,  the  three  of 
us,  at  about  ten  o'clock,  in  the  little  low  dogcart,  followed 
by  the  kitchen  and  the  boiler.  Marie  Ivanovna  sat  next  to 
Semyonov,  I  facing  them.  Semyonov  was  happier  than  I 
had  ever  seen  him  before.  Happiness  was  not  a  quality 
with  which  I  would  ever  have  charged  him ;  he  had  seemed 
to  despise  it  as  something  too  simple  and  sentimental  for 
any  but  sentimental  fools — but  now  this  morning  (I  had 
noticed  something  of  the  same  thing  in  him  the  evening 
before)  he  was  quite  simply  happy,  looking  younger  by 
many  years,  the  ironical  cun'e  of  his  lip  gone,  his  eyes  smil- 
ing, his  attitude  to  the  world  gentle  and  almost  benevolent. 


230  THE  DARK  FOREST 

Of  course  she,  Marie  Ivanovna,  had  wrought  this  change 
in  him.  There  was  no  doubt  this  morning  that  she  loved 
him.  She  had  in  her  face  and  bearing  all  the  pride  and 
also  all  the  humility  that  a  love,  won,  secured,  ensured, 
brings  with  it.  She  did  not  look  at  him  often  nor  take 
his  hand.  She  spoke  to  me  during  the  drive  and  only  once 
and  again  smiled  up  at  him ;  but  her  soul,  shining  through 
the  thin  covering  of  her  body,  laughed  to  me,  crying:  "I 
am  happy  because  I  have  my  desire.  Of  yesterday  I  re- 
member nothing,  of  to-morrow  I  can  know  nothing,  but  to- 
day is  mine!" 

He  was  very  quiet.  When  he  looked  at  her  his  eyes  took 
complete  possession  of  her.  I  did  not,  that  morning,  count 
at  all  to  either  of  them,  but  I  too  felt  a  kind  of  pride  as 
though  I  were  sharing  in  some  triumphal  procession.  She 
chattered  on,  and  then  at  last  was  silent.  I  remember  that 
the  great  heat  of  the  morning  wrought  in  us  all  a  kind  of 
lethargy.  We  were  lazily  confident  that  day  that  nothing 
evil  could  overtake  us.  We  idly  watched  the  sky,  the  river, 
the  approaching  forest,  with  a  luxurious  reliance  on  the 
power  of  man,  and  I  caught  much  of  my  assurance  from 
Semyonov  himself.  He  did  really  seem  to  me,  that  morn- 
ing, a  "tremendous"  figure,  as  he  sat  there,  so  still,  so  tri- 
umphant. He  had  never  before,  perhaps,  been  quite  certain 
of  Marie  Ivanovna,  had  been  alarmed  at  her  independence, 
or  at  his  own  passionate  love  for  her.  But  this  morning  he 
knew.  She  loved  him.  She  was  his — no  one  could  take  her 
from  him.  She  was  the  woman  he  wanted  as  he  had  never 
wanted  a  woman  before,  and  she  was  his — she  was  his! 

I  do  not  remember  our  entering  the  forest.  I  know  that 
first  you  climb  a  rough,  rather  narrow  road  up  from  the 
river,  that  the  trees  close  about  you  very  gradually,  that 
there  is  a  little  church  with,  a  green  turret  and  a  fine  view 


MAKIE  IVANOVNA  231 

of  the  IlTestor,  and  that  there  a  broad  solemn  avenue  of  silver 
birch  leads  you  forward,  gently  and  without  any  sinister 
omens.  Then  again  the  forest  clears  and  there  are  fields  of 
corn  and,  built  amongst  the  thin  scattering  of  trees,  the 

village  of  N .    It  was  here,  on  passing  the  first  houses 

of  the  village,  that  I  felt  the  heat  to  be  almost  unbearable ; 
it  seemed  strange  to  me,  I  remember,  that  they  (whoever 
"they"  were),  having  so  many  trees  here,  a  forest  that 
stretched  many  miles  behind  them,  should  have  chosen  to 
pitch  their  village  upon  the  only  exposed  and  torrid  bit  of 
ground  that  they  could  find.  Behind  us  was  the  forest,  in 
front  of  us  also  the  forest,  but  here,  how  the  sun  blazed 
down  on  the  roofs  and  little  blown  patches  of  garden,  how 
it  glared  in  through  the  broken  windows,  and  penetrated 
into  the  darkest  comers  of  the  desolate  rooms ! 

Poor  !N" !     In  the  second  month  of  the  war  it  had 

been  shelled  and  many  of  the  houses  destroyed.  The 
buildings  that  remained  seemed  to  have  given  up  the  strug- 
gle and  abandoned  themselves  to  inevitable  degradation. 
Moreover,  down  the  principal  street,  at  every  other  door 
there  hung  the  sinister  black  flag,  a  piece  of  dirty  black 
cloth  fastened  to  a  stick,  and  upon  the  filthy  wall  was 
scrawled  in  Russian  "cholera."  Dead,  indeed,  under  the 
appalling  heat  of  the  morning  the  whole  place  lay.  No  one 
was  to  be  seen  until  we  neared  the  ruins  of  what  had  once 
been  a  little  town-hall  or  meeting-place,  a  procession  turned 
the  comer — a  procession  of  a  peasant  with  a  tall  lighted 
candle,  another  peasant  with  a  tattered  banner,  a  priest  in 
soiled  silk,  a  coffin  of  white  wood  on  a  haycart,  and  four 
or  five  white-faced  and  apathetic  women.  A  doleful  sing- 
ing came  from  the  miserable  party.  They  did  not  look  at 
us  as  we  passed.  .  .  . 


232  THE  DARK  FOREST 

A  rumble  of  cannon,  once  and  again,  sounded  like  the 
lazy  snore  of  some  sleeping  beast. 

'Near  the  town-hall  we  found  a  company  of  fantastic 
creatures  awaiting  us.  They  were  pressed  together  in  a 
dense  crowd  as  though  they  were  afraid  of  some  one  attack- 
ing them.  There  were  many  old  men,  like  the  clowns  in 
Shakespeare,  dirty  beyond  belief  in  tattered  garments,  wide- 
brimmed  hats,  broad  skirts  and  baggy  trousers;  old  men 
with  long  tangled  hair,  bare  bony  breasts  and  slobbering 
chins.  Many  of  the  women  seemed  strong  and  young ;  their 
faces  were  on  the  whole  cheerful — a  brazen  indifference  to 
anything  and  everything  was  their  attitude.  There  were 
many  children.  Two  gendarmes  guarded  them  with  rough 
friendly  discipline.  I  thought  that  I  had  seen  nothing 
more  terrible  at  the  war  than  the  eager  pitiful  docility  with 
which  they  moved  to  and  fro  in  obedience  to  the  gendarmes' 
orders.     A  dreadful,  broken,  creeping  submission.  .  .  . 

But  it  was  their  fantasy,  their  coloured  incredible  un- 
reality that  overwhelmed  me.  The  building,  black  and 
twisted  against  the  hard  blue  sky,  raised  its  head  behind 
us  like  a  malicious  monster.  Before  us  this  crowd,  all 
tattered  faded  pieces  of  scarlet  and  yellow  and  blue,  men 
with  huge  noses,  sunken  eyes,  sharp  chins,  long  skinny 
hands,  women  with  hard,  bright,  dead  faces,  little  children 
with  eyes  that  were  afraid  and  indifferent,  hungry  and  mad, 
all  this  crowd  swaying  before  us,  with  the  cannon  muttering 
beyond  the  walls,  and  the  thin  miserable  thread  of  the  fu- 
neral hymn  trickling  like  water  under  our  feet.  ....  I 
looked  from  these  to  Semyonov  and  Marie  Ivanovna,  they 
in  their  white  overalls  working  at  the  meat  kitchen  and  the 
huge  bread-baskets,  radiant  in  their  love,  their  success, 
their  struggle,  confident,  both  of  them,  this  morning  that 


MARIE  IVANOVNA  233 

tliej  had  the  fire  of  life  in  their  hands  to  do  with  it  as  they 
pleased. 

I  have  not  wished  during  the  progress  of  this  book,  which 
is  the  history  of  the  experiences  of  others  rather  than  of 
myself,  to  lay  any  stress  on  my  personal  history,  and  here 
I  would  only  say  that  any  one  who  is  burdened  with  a 
physical  disease  or  encumbrance  that  will  remain  to  the 
end  of  life  must  know  that  there  are  certain  moments  when 
this  hindrance  leaps  up  at  him  like  the  grinning  face  of  a 
devil — despairing  hideous  moments  they  are!  I  have  said 
that  during  our  drive  I  had  felt  a  confident  happy  participa- 
tion in  the  joy  of  those  others  who  were  with  me  .  .  .  now 
as  we  stood  there  feeding  that  company  of  scarecrows,  a 
sudden  horror  of  my  own  lameness,  a  sudden  consciousness 
that  I  belonged  rather  to  that  band  of  miserable  diseased 
hungry  fugitives  than  to  the  two  triumphant  figures  on  the 
other  side  of  me,  overwhelmed  and  defeated  me.  I  bent 
my  head ;  I  felt  a  shame,  a  degradation  as  though  I  should 
have  crept  into  some  shadow  and  hidden.  ...  I  would  not 
mention  this  were  it  not  that  afterwards,  in  retrospect,  the 
moment  seemed  to  me  an  omen.  After  all,  life  is  not  always 
to  the  victorious !  .  .  . 

Our  scarecrows  wanted,  horribly,  their  food.  It  was 
dreadful  to  see  the  anxiety  with  which  they  watched  the 
portioning  of  the  thick  heavy  hunks  of  black  bread.  They 
had  to  show  Marie  Ivanovna  their  dirty  little  scraps  of 
paper  which  described  the  portions  to  which  they  were 
entitled.  How  their  bony  fingers  clutched  the  paper  after- 
wards as  they  pressed  it  back  into  their  skinny  bosoms! 
Sometimes  they  could  not  wait  to  return  home,  but  would 
squat  down  on  the  ground  and  lap  their  soup  like  dogs.  The 
day  grew  hotter  and  hotter,  the  world  smelt  of  disease  and 
dirt,  waste  and  desolation.    Marie  Ivanovna's  face  was  soft 


234  THE  DARK  FOREST 

with  tenderness  as  she  watched  them.  Semyonov  had  always 
his  eye  upon  her,  seeing  that  she  did  not  touch  them,  some- 
times calling  out  sharply:  "Now!  Marie!  .  .  .  take  care! 
Take  care !"  but  this  morning  he  also  seemed  kind  and  gentle 
to  them,  leading  a  small  girl  back  to  her  haggard  bony  old 
guardian,  carrying  her  heavy  can  of  soup  for  her,  or  joking 
with  some  of  the  old  men  .  .  .  "Now,  uncle  .  .  .  you 
ought  to  be  at  the  war !  What  have  they  done,  leaving  you  ? 
So  young  and  so  vigorous !  They'll  take  you  yet !"  and  the 
old  man,  a  toothless  trembling  creature,  clutching  his  hunk 
of  bread  vdth  shaking  hands,  would  grin  like  the  head  of 
Death  himself !  How  close  to  death  they  all  seemed !  How 
alive  were  my  friends,  strong  in  the  sun,  compassionate  but 
also  perhaps  a  little  despising  this  poor  gathering  of  wast- 
rels. 

The  work  went  on ;  then  at  last  the  final  scraps  of  meat 
and  bread  had  been  shared,  the  kitchen  closed  its  oven,  we 
took  off  our  overalls,  shook  ourselves,  and  bade  farewell 
to  the  scarecrows.  The  kitchen  was  then  sent  home  and  we 
moved  forward  with  the  tea  boiler  and  two  sanitars  further 
into  the  forest.  Our  destination  was  a  large  empty  house 
behind  the  trenches.  From  here  we  were  to  take  tea  in  the 
boiler  to  certain  regiments,  tea  with  wine  in  it  as  pre- 
ventative against  cholera.  It  was  the  early  afternoon  now, 
and  we  moved  very  slowly.  The  heat  was  intense  and 
although  the  trees  were  thick  on  every  side  of  us  there 
seemed  to  be  no  shade  nor  coolness,  as  though  the  leaves 
had  been  made  of  paper. 

"This  is  a  strange  forest,"  I  said.  "Although  there  are 
trees  there's  no  shade.     It  bums  like  a  furnace." 

No  one  replied.  We  passed  as  though  in  a  dream,  meet- 
ing no  one,  hearing  no  sound,  the  light  dancing  and  flicker- 
ing on  our  path.    I  nodded  on  my  seat.    I  was  half  asleep 


MARIE  IVANOVNA  235 

when  we  arrived  at  our  destination.  This  was  the  accus- 
tomed white  deserted  house  standing  in  a  desolate  tangled 
garden.  There  was  no  one  there  on  our  arrival.  All  the 
doors  were  open,  the  sun  blazing  along  the  dusty  passages. 
It  was  inhabited,  just  then,  I  believe,  by  some  artillery 
officers,  but  I  saw  none  of  them.  Semyonov  went  off  to  find 
the  Colonel  of  the  regiment  to  whom  we  were  to  give  tea ; 
Marie  Ivanovna  and  I  remained  in  one  of  the  empty  rooms, 
the  only  sound  the  buzzing  flies.  Every  detail  of  that  room 
will  remain  in  my  heart  and  brain  until  I  die.  Marie 
Ivanovna,  looking  very  white  and  cool,  with  the  happiness 
shining  in  her  large  clear  eyes,  sat  on  an  old  worn  sofa  near 
the  window.  In  the  glass  of  the  window  there  were  bullet 
holes,  and  beyond  the  window  a  piece  of  blazing  golden 
garden.  The  room  was  very  dirty,  dust  lay  thick  upon  every- 
thing. Some  one  had  eaten  a  meal  there,  and  there  was  a 
plate,  a  knife,  also  egg-shells,  an  empty  sardine-tin,  and  a 
hunk  of  black  bread.  There  was  a  book  which  I  picked 
up,  attracted  by  the  English  lettering  on  the  faded  red  cover. 
It  was  a  "Report  on  the  Condition  of  New  Mexico  in  1904" 
— a  heavy  fat  volume  with  the  usual  photographs  of  water- 
falls, cornfields  and  enormous  sheep.  On  the  walls  there 
was  only  one  picture,  a  torn  supplement  from  some  German 
magazine  showing  father  returning  to  his  family  after  a 
long  absence — welcomed,  of  course,  by  child  (fat  and  ugly), 
wife  (fatter  and  uglier),  and  dog  (a  mongrel).  There  was 
the  usual  pile  of  fiction  in  Polish,  translations  I  suspect  of 
Conan  Doyle  and  Jerome;  there  was  a  desolate  palm  in  a 
comer  and  a  chipped  blue  washing  stand.  A  hideous  place: 
the  sun  did  not  penetrate  and  it  should  have  been  cool, 
but  for  some  reason  the  air  was  heavy  and  hot  as  though 
we  were  enclosed  in  a  biscuit-tin. 

I  leaned  against  the  table  and  looked  at  Marie  Ivanovna. 


236  THE  DARK  FOREST 

"Isn't  it  strange  ?"  I  said,  "we're  only  a  verst  or  two  from 
the  Austrians  and  not  a  sound  to  be  heard.  But  the  gen- 
darme told  me  that  we  must  be  careful  here.  A  good  many 
bullets  flying  about,  I  believe." 

"Ah!"  she  said  laughing.  "I  don't  feel  as  though  any- 
thing could  touch  me  to-day.  I  never  loved  life  before  as 
I  love  it  now.  Is  it  right  to  be  so  happy  at  such  a  time  as 
this  and  in  such  a  place?  .  .  .  And  how  strange  it  is  that 
through  all  the  tragedy  one  can  only  truly  see  one's  own 
little  affairs,  and  only  feel  one's  own  little  troubles  and  joys. 
That's  bad  .  .  .  one  should  be  punished  for  that!" 

I  loved  her  at  that  moment ;  I  felt  bitterly,  I  remember, 
that  I,  because  I  was  plain  and  a  cripple,  silent  and  unin- 
teresting, would  never  win  the  love  of  such  women.  I 
remembered  little  Audrey  Yassilievitch's  words  about  his 
wife :  "For  me  she  cared  as  good  women  care  for  the  poor." 
In  that  way  for  me  too  women  would  care — when  they  cared 
at  all.  And  always,  all  my  life,  it  would  be  like  that.  How 
unfair  that  everything  should  be  given  to  the  Semyonovs 
and  the  ISTikitins  of  this  world,  everything  denied  to  such 
men  as  Trenchard,  Audrey  Vassilievitch  and  11... 

But  my  little  grumble  passed  as  I  looked  at  her. 

How  honest  and  straight  and  true  v^dth  her  impulses,  her 
enthusiasms,  her  rebellions  and  ignorances  she  was!  Yes, 
I  loved  her  and  had  always  loved  her.  That  was  why  I  had 
cared  for  Trenchard,  why  now  I  was  attracted  by  Semyonov. 
because,  shadow  of  a  man  as  I  was,  not  man  enough  to  be 
jealous,  I  could  see  with  her  eyes,  stand  beside  her  and 
share  her  emotion.  .  .  .  But  God !  how  that  day  I  despised 
myself ! 

"You're  tired !"  she  said,  looking  at  me.  "Is  your  leg 
hurting  you  ?" 

"JSTot  much,"  I  answered. 


MARIE  IVAiN^OVNA  237 

"Sit  down  here  beside  me."  She  made  way  for  me  on  the 
sofa.    "Ivan  Andreievitch,  you  will  always  be  my  friend  ?" 

"Always,"  I  answered. 

"I  believe  you  will.  I'm  a  little  afraid  of  you,  but  I 
think  that  I  would  rather  have  you  as  a  friend  than  any  one 
— except  John.  How  fortunate  I  am!  Two  Englishmen 
for  my  friends !  You  do  not  change  as  R-russians  do !  You 
will  be  angry  with  me  when  you  think  that  I  am  wrong, 
but  then  I  can  believe  you.  I  know  that  you  will  tell  me 
the  truth." 

"Perhaps,"  I  said  slowly,  "Alexei  Petrovitch  will  not 
wish  that  I  should  be  your  friend !" 

"Alexei  ?"  she  said,  laughing.  "Oh,  thank  you  very 
much,  I  shall  choose  my  own  friends.  That  will  always 
be  my  affair." 

I  had  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  perhaps  she  knew  as  little 
about  Semyonov  as  she  had  once  known  about  Trenchard. 
It  might  be  that  all  her  life  she  might  never  learn  wisdom. 
I  do  not  know  that  I  wished  her  to  learn  it. 

"No,"  she  continued.  "But  you  forgive  me  now  ?  For- 
give me  for  all  my  mistakes,  for  thinking  that  I  loved  John 
when  I  did  not  and  treating  him  so  badly.  Ah!  but  how 
unhappy  I  was !  I  wished  to  be  honourable  and  honest — I 
wished  it  passionately — and  I  seemed  only  to  make  mis- 
takes. And  then  because  I  was  ashamed  of  myself  I  was 
angry  with  every  one — at  least  it  seemed  that  it  was  with 
every  one,  but  it  was  really  with  myself." 

"I  did  you  injustice,"  I  said.  "And  I  did  Alexei  Petro- 
vitch an  injustice  also.  I  know  now  that  he  truly  and 
deeply  loves  you.  ...  I  believe  that  you  will  be  very 
happy  .  .  .  yes,  it  is  better,  much  better,  than  that  you 
should  have  married  Trenchard." 

Her  face  flushed  with  happiness,  that  strange  flush  of 


238  THE  DARK  FOEEST 

colour  behind  her  pale  cheeks,  coming  and  going  with  the 
beats  of  her  heart. 

She  continued  happily,  confidently :  "When  I  was  grow- 
ing up  I  was  always  restless.  My  mother  allowed  me  to  do 
as  I  pleased  and  I  had  no  one  in  authority  over  me.  I  was 
restless  because  I  knew  nothing  and  no  one  could  tell  me 
anything  that  seemed  to  me  true.  I  would  have,  like  other 
girls,  sudden  enthusiasms  for  some  one  who  seemed  strong 
and  wonderful — and  then  they  were  never  wonderful — 
only  like  every  one  else.  I  would  be  angry,  impatient, 
miserable.  Russian  girls  begin  life  so  early  .  .  .  After 
a  time,  mother  began  to  treat  me  as  though  I  was  grown 
up.  We  went  to  Petrograd  and  I  thought  about  clothes 
and  theatres.  But  I  never  forgot — I  always  waited  for 
the  man  or  the  work  or  the  friend  that  was  to  make  life  real. 
Then  suddenly  the  war  came  and  I  thought  that  I  had 
found  what  I  wanted.  But  there  too  there  were  disappoint- 
ments. John  was  not  John,  the  war  was  not  the  war  .  .  . 
and  it's  only  to-day  now  that  I  feel  as  though  I  were  r-right 
inside.  I've  been  so  stupid — I've  made  so  many  mistakes." 
She  dropped  her  voice:  "I've  always  been  afraid,  Ivan 
Andreievitch,  that  is  the  truth.  You  remember  that  morn- 
ing before  S ?" 

"Yes,"  nj  said.    "I  remember  it." 

"Well,  it  has  been  often,  often  like  that.  I've  been  afraid 
of  myself  and — of  something  else — of  dying.  I  found  that 
I  didn't  want  to  die,  that  the  thought  of  death  was  too 
horrible  to  me.  That  day  of  the  Retreat  how  afraid  I  was ! 
John  could  not  protect  me,  no  one  could.  And  I  was 
ashamed  of  myself!  How  ashamed,  how  miserable.  And 
I  was  afraid  because  I  thought  of  myself  more  than  of 
any  one  else — always.  I  had  fine  ideals  but — in  practice 
— it  was  only  that — that  I  always  was  selfish.    Now,  for  the 


MAEIE  IVANOVNA  239 

first  time  ever,  I  care  for  some  one  more  than  myself  and 
suddenly  I  am  afraid  of  death  no  longer.  It  is  true,  Ivan 
Andreievitch,  I  do  not  believe  that  death  can  separate  Alexei 
from  me;  I  have  more  reason  now  to  wish  to  live  than  I 
have  ever  had,  but  now  I  am  not  afraid.  Wherever  I  am, 
Alexei  will  come — wherever  he  is,  I  will  go.  .  .  ." 

She  broke  off — ^then  laughed.  "You  think  it  silly  in 
England  to  talk  about  such  things.  No  English  girl  would, 
would  she  ?  In  Russia  we  are  silly  if  we  like.  But  oh ! 
how  happy  it  is,  after  all  these  weeks,  not  to  be  afraid — 
not  to  wake  up  early  and  lie  there  and  think — think  and 
shudder.    They  used  to  say  I  was  brave  about  the  wounded, 

brave  at  S ,  brave  at  operations  ...  if  they  only  knew ! 

You  only,  Ivan  Andreievitch,  have  seen  me  afraid,  you 
only!  .  .  ."  She  looked  at  me,  her  eyes  searching  my 
face :  "Isn't  it  strange  that  you  who  do  not  love  me  know 
me,  perhaps,  better  than  John — and  yes,  better  than  Alexei. 
That's  why  I  tell  you — I  can  talk  to  you.  I  never  could 
talk  to  women — I  never  cared  for  women.  You  and  John 
for  my  friends — ^yes,  I  am  indeed  happy !" 

She  got  up  from  the  old  sofa,  walked  a  little  about  the 
room,  looked  at  the  remains  of  the  meal,  at  the  book,  then 
turned  round  to  me: 

"Don't  ever  tell  any  one,  Ivan  Andreievitch,  that  I  have 
been  afraid.  .  .  .  I'm  never  to  be  afraid  again.  And  I'm 
not  going  to  die.  I  know  now  that  life  is  wonderful — at 
last  all  that  when  I  was  young  I  expected  it  to  be.  .  .  .  Do 
you  know,  Ivan  Andreievitch,  I  feel  to-day  as  though  I 
would  live  for  ever!  .  .  ." 

Semyonov  came  in.  He  was  in  splendid  spirits;  I  had 
never  seen  him  so  gay,  so  carelessly  happy. 

"Well,"  he  cried  to  me,  "we're  to  go  now — at  once 
,  .  .  and  the  next  time  at  eight.    We'll  leave  you  this  time. 


240  THE  DAEK  FOKEST 

We'll  be  back  by  half-past  six.  We'll  do  the  Third  and 
Fourth  Roti  now.  The  Eighth  and  Ninth  afterwards.  Can 
you  wait  for  tea  until  we  return?  Good.  .  .  .  Half -past 
six,  then!" 

They  departed.  As  she  went  out  of  the  door  she  turned 
and  gave  me  a  little  happy  smile  as  though  to  bind  me  to 
an  intimate  enduring  confidence.  I  smiled  back  at  her 
and  she  was  gone. 

After  they  had  left  me  I  felt  very  lonely.  The  house  was 
still  and  desolate,  and  I  took  a  book  that  I  had  brought  with 
me — the  "Le  Deuil  des  Primeveres"  of  Frangois  Jammes. 
I  had  learnt  the  habit  during  my  first  visit  to  the  war  of 
always  taking  a  book  in  my  pocket  when  engaged  upon  any 
business;  there  were  so  many  long  weary  hours  of  waiting 
when  the  nerves  were  stretched,  and  a  book — quiet  and 
real  and  something  apart  from  all  wars  and  all  rumours  of 
wars — was  a  most  serious  necessity.  What  "Tristram 
Shandy"  was  to  me  once  under  fire  near  Nijnieff,  and  "Red- 
gauntlet"  on  an  awful  morning  when  our  whole  Otriad  medi- 
tated on  the  possibility  of  imprisonment  before  the  eve- 
ning— with  nothing  to  be  done  but  sit  and  wait!  I  went 
into  the  garden  with  M.  Jammes. 

As  I  walked  along  the  little  paths  through  a  tangle  of 
wood  and  green  that  might  very  well  have  presented  the 
garden  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty,  I  heard  now  and  then  a 
sound  that  resembled  the  swift  flight  of  a  bird  or  the  sud- 
den "ting"  of  a  telegraph-wire.  The  Austrians  were  amus- 
ing themselves;  sometimes  a  bullet  would  clip  a  tree  in  its 
passing  or  one  would  see  a  leaf,  quite  suddenly  detached, 
hover  for  a  moment  idly  in  the  air  and  then  circle  slowly 
to  the  ground.  Except  for  this  sound  the  garden  was  fast 
held  in  the  warm  peace  of  a  summer  afternoon.  I  found 
a  most  happy  little  neglected  orchard  with  old  gnarled 


MAEIE  IVA:^rOYNA  241 

apple-trees  and  thick  waving  grass.  Here  I  lay  on  my  back, 
watching  the  gold  through  the  leaves,  soaked  in  the  apathy 
and  somnolence  of  the  day,  sinking  idly  into  sleep,  rising, 
sinking  again,  as  though  rocked  in  a  hammock.  I  was  in 
England  once  more — at  intervals  there  came  a  sharp  click 
that  exactly  resembled  the  sound  that  one  hears  in  an  Eng- 
lish village  on  a  summer  afternoon  when  they  are  playing 
cricket  in  the  field  near  by — oneself  at  one's  ease  in  the 
garden,  half  sleeping,  half  building  castles  in  the  air,  the 
crack  of  the  ball  on  the  bat,  the  cooing  of  some  pigeons  on 
the  roof.  .  .  .  Once  again  that  sharp  pleasant  sound,  again 
the  flight  of  the  bird  above  one's  head,  again  the  rustle 
of  some  leaves  behind  one's  head  .  .  .  soon  there  will 
be  tea,  strawberries  and  cream,  a  demand  that  one  shall 
play  tennis,  that  saunter  through  the  cool  dark  house,  up 
old  stairs,  along  narrow  passages  to  one's  room  where  one 
will  slowly,  happily  change  into  flannels — hearing  still 
through  the  open  window  the  crack  of  the  bat  upon  the  ball 
from  the  distant  field 

But  as  I  lay  there  I  was  unhappy,  rebellious.  The  con- 
fidence and  splendour  of  Marie  Ivanovna  and  Semyonov 
had  driven  me  into  exile.  I  hated  myself  that  afternoon. 
That  pursuit — the  excitement  of  the  penetration  into  the 
dark  forest — the  thrill  of  the  chase — ^those  things  were  for 
the  strong  men,  the  brave  women — not  for  the  halt  and 
maimed  .  .  .  not  love  nor  glory,  neither  hate  nor  fierce 
rebellion  were  for  such  men  as  I.  ...  I  cursed  my  fate, 
my  life,  because  I  loved,  not  for  the  first  time,  a  woman 
who  was  glad  that  I  did  not  love  her  and  was  so  sure  that 
I  did  not  and  could  not,  that  she  could  proclaim  her  satis- 
faction openly  to  me! 

I  had  an  hour  of  bitterness — then,  as  I  had  so  often  done 


242  THE  DARK  FOREST 

before,  I  laughed,  drove  the  little  devil  into  his  cage,  locked 
it,  dropped  the  thick  curtain  in  front  of  it. 

I  claimed  the  company  of  M.  Frangois  Jammes. 

He  has  a  delightful  poem  about  donkeys  and  as  I  read  it 
I  regained  my  tranquillity.     It  begins : 

Ijorsqu'il  faudra  alter  vers  Vous,  6  mon  Dieu,  faitea 

Que  ce  soit  par  un  jour  ou  la  campagne  en  fete 

Poudroiera.    Je  desire,  avnsi  que  je  fis  ioirbas, 

Choisir  un  chemin  pour  oiler,  comme  it  me  plaira, 

Au  Paradis,  oii  sont  en  plein  jour  les  itoiles. 

Je  prendrai  mon  baton  et  sur  la  grande  route 

J'irai  et  je  dirai  aux  dnes,  m,es  amis: 

Je  suis  Francois  Jammes  et  je  vais  au  Paradis, 

Car  it  n'y  a  pas  d'enfer  au  pays  du  Bon  Dieu. 

Je  leur  dirai:  Venez,  doux  amis  du  del  bleu, 

Pau/vres  betes  cheries  qui  d'u/n  brusque  mouvement  d'oreilles, 

Chassez  les  mouchea  plates,  les  coups  et  les  abeilles  .  .  . 

That  brought  tranquillity  back  to  me.  I  found  another 
poem — ^his  "Amsterdam." 

Les  maisons  pointuss  ont  I'air  de  pencher.     On  dirait 

Qu'elles  tombent.    Les  mdts  des  vaisseaux  qui  s'embrouillent 

Dans  le  del  sont  penches  comme  des  branches  siches 

Au  milieu  de  verdure,  de  raye,  de  rouille, 

De  ha/rengs  saurs,  de  peaux  de  moutons  et  de  bouille. 

Robinson  Crusoe  passa  par  Amsterdam 
{Je  crois  du  moins  quHl  y  passa)   en  revenant 
De  Vile  ombreuse  et  verte  aux  noix  de  coco  fraiches. 
QurClle  Amotion  il  dut  avoir  quand  il  vit  luire 
Les  portes  enormes,  aux  lourds  marteaux,  de  cette  villel  .  . 

Regardait-il  curieusement  les  entresols 

Ou  les  commis  6crivent  les  livres  de  comptesf 

Eut-il  envie  de  pleurer  en  resongeant 

A   son  cher  perroquet,  a  son  lou/rd  parasol, 

Qui  I'abritait  dans  Vile  attristee  et  clementeT  .  .  . 


MAKIE  IVANOVNA  243 

I  was  asleep ;  my  eyes  closed ;  the  book  fell  from  my  hand. 
Some  one  near  me  seemed  to  repeat  in  the  air  the  words: 

Robinson  Crusoe  passa  par  Amsterdam 

(Je  crois,  du  mmns,  qu'il  y  passa)   en  revenant 

De  Vile  omhreuse.  .  .  . 

"De  Vile  ombreuse"  .  .  .  "Bobmson  Crusoe  passa"  .  .  . 

I  was  rocked  in  the  hot  golden  air.  I  slept  heavily, 
deeply,  without  dreams.  .  .  . 

I  was  awakened  by  a  cold  fierce  apprehension  of  terror. 
I  sat  up,  stared  slowly  around  me  with  the  sure,  certain  con- 
viction that  some  dreadful  thing  had  occurred.  The  orchard 
was  as  it  had  been — the  sun,  lower  now,  shone  through 
the  green  branches.  All  was  still  and  even,  as  I  listened 
I  heard  the  sharp  crack  of  the  ball  upon  the  bat  breaking 
the  evening  air.  My  heart  had  simply  ceased  to  beat.  I 
remember  that  with  a  hand  that  trembled  I  picked  up  the 
book  that  was  lying  open  on  the  grass  and  read,  without 
understanding  them,  the  words.  I  remember  that  I  said, 
out  aloud:  "Something's  happened,"  then  turning  saw 
Semyonov's  face. 

I  realised  nothing  save  his  face  with  its  pale  square  beard 
and  red  lips,  framed  there  by  the  shining  green  and 
blue.  He  stood  there,  without  moving,  staring  at  me,  and 
the  memory  of  his  eyes  even  now  as  I  write  of  it  hurts 
me  physically  so  that  my  own  eyes  close. 

That  was  perhaps  the  worst  moment  of  my  life,  that  con- 
frontation of  Semyonov.  He  stood  there  as  though  carved 
in  stone  (his  figure  had  always  the  stiff  clear  outline  of 
stone  or  wood).  I  realised  nothing  of  his  body — I  simply 
saw  his  eyes,  that  were  staring  straight  in  front  of  him, 
that  were  blazing  with  pain,  and  yet  were  blind.  He  looked 
past  me  and,  if  one  had  not  seen  the  live  agony  of  his  eyes, 


244  THE  DAEK  FOEEST 

one  would  have  thought  that  he  was  absorbed  in  watching 
something  that  was  so  distant  that  he  must  concentrate  all 
his  attention  upon  it. 

I  got  upon  my  feet  and  as  my  eyes  met  his  I  knew  with- 
out any  question  at  all  that  Marie  Ivanovna  was  dead. 

When  I  had  risen  we  stood  for  a  moment  facing  one  an- 
other, then  without  a  word  he  turned  towards  the  house.  I 
followed  him,  leaving  my  book  upon  the  grass.  He  walking 
slowly  in  front  of  me  with  his  usual  assured  step,  except 
that  once  he  walked  into  a  bush  that  was  to  his  right;  he 
afterwards  came  away  from  it,  as  a  man  walking  in  his 
sleep  might  do,  without  lowering  his  eyes  to  look  at  it.  We 
entered  by  a  side-door.  I,  myself,  had  no  thoughts  at  all 
at  this  time.  I  felt  only  the  cold,  heavy  oppression  at  my 
heart,  and  I  had,  I  remember,  no  curiosity  as  to  what  had 
occurred.  We  passed  through  passages  that  were  strangely 
dark,  in  a  silence  that  was  weighted  and  mysterious.  We 
entered  the  room  where  we  had  been  earlier  in  the  after- 
noon; it  seemed  now  to  be  full  of  people,  I  saw  now  quite 
clearly,  although  just  before  the  whole  world  had  seemed 
to  be  dark.  I  saw  our  two  soldiers  standing  back  by  the 
door ;  a  doctor,  whose  face  I  did  not  know,  a  very  corpulent 
man,  was  on  his  knees  on  the  floor — some  sanitars  were  in 
a  group  by  the  window.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  lay 
Marie  Ivanovna  on  a  stretcher.  Even  as  I  entered  the  stout 
doctor  rose,  shaking  his  head.  I  had  only  that  one  glimpse 
of  her  face  on  my  entry,  because,  at  the  shake  of  the  doc- 
tor's head,  a  sanitar  stepped  forward  and  covered  her  with 
a  cloth.  But  I  shall  see  her  face  as  it  was  until  I  die.  Her 
eyes  were  closed,  she  seemed  very  peaceful.  .  .  .  But  I 
cannot  write  of  it,  even  now.  .  .  . 

My  business  here  is  simply  with  facts,  and  I  must  be 
forgiven  if  now  I  am  brief  in  my  account. 


MARIE  IVANOVNA  245 

The  room  was  just  as  it  had  been  earlier  in  the  after- 
noon ;  I  saw  the  sardine-tin,  the  dirty  plate  that  had  a  little 
cloud  of  flies  upon  it;  the  room  seemed  under  the  evening 
sun  full  of  gold  dust.  I  crossed  over  to  our  soldiers  and 
asked  them  how  it  had  been.  One  of  them  told  me  that  they 
had  gone  with  the  boiler  to  the  trenches.  Everything  had 
been  very  quiet.  They  had  taken  their  stand  behind  a  small 
ruined  house.  Semyonov  had  just  returned  from  telling 
the  officers  of  the  Rota  that  the  tea  was  ready  when,  quite 
suddenly,  the  Austrians  had  begun  to  fire.  Bullets  had 
passed  thickly  overhead.  Marie  Ivanovna  had  seemed  quite 
fearless,  and  laughing,  had  stepped,  for  a  moment,  from 
behind  the  shelter  to  see  whether  the  soldiers  were  coming 
for  their  tea.  She  was  struck  instantly;  she  gave  a  sharp 
little  cry  and  fell.  They  rushed  to  her  side,  but  death  had 
been  instantaneous.  She  had  been  struck  in  the  heart.  .  .  . 
There  was  nothing  to  be  done.  .  .  .  The  soldiers  seemed  to 
feel  it  very  deeply,  and  one  of  them,  a  little  round  fellow 
with  a  merry  face  whom  I  knew  well,  turned  away  from  me 
and  began  to  cry,  with  his  hand  to  his  eyes. 

Semyonov  was  standing  in  the  room  with  exactly  that 
same  dead  burning  expression  in  his  eyes.  His  mouth  was 
set  severely,  his  legs  apart,  his  hands  at  his  sides. 

"A  terrible  misfortune,"  I  heard  the  stout  doctor  say. 

Semyonov  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  your  kindness,"  he  said  cour- 
teously. Then,  by  a  common  instinct,  without  any  spoken 
word  between  us,  we  all  went  from  the  room,  leaving  Sem- 
yonov alone  there. 

I  remember  very  little  of  our  return  to  Mittovo.  We  bor- 
rowed a  cart  upon  which  we  laid  the  body.  I  sat  in  the  trap 
with  Semyonov.  I  was,  I  remember,  afraid  lest  he  should 
suddenly  go  off  his  head.    It  seemed  quite  a  possible  thing 


246  THE  DARK  FOREST 

then,  he  was  so  quiet,  so  motionless,  scarcely  breathing.  I 
concentrated  all  my  thought  upon  this.  I  had  my  hand 
upon  his  arm  and  I  remember  that  it  relieved  me  in  some 
way  to  feel  it  so  thick  and  strong  beneath  his  sleeve.  He 
did  not  look  at  me  once. 

I  do  not  know  what  my  thoughts  were,  a  confused  inco- 
herent medley  of  nonsense.  I  did  not  think  of  Marie 
Ivanovna  at  all.  I  repeated  again  and  again  to  myself, 
in  the  silly,  insane  way  that  one  does  under  the  shock  of 
some  trouble,  the  words  of  the  poem  that  I  had  read  that 
afternoon : 


RoMnson  Crusoe  passa  par  Amsterdam 

{Je  crois  du  moins  qu'il  y  passa)    en  revenant 

De  Vile  ombreuse  et  verte — ombreuse  et  verte — ombreuse  et  verte. 


It  was  dark,  or  at  any  rate,  it  seemed  to  me  dark.  The 
weather  was  still  and  close ;  every  sound  echoed  abominably 
through  the  silence.  When  we  arrived  at  Mittovo  I  sud- 
denly thought  of  Trenchard.  I  had  utterly  forgotten  him 
until  that  moment.  I  got  out  of  the  trap  and  when  Sem- 
yonov  climbed  out  he  put  his  hand  on  my  arm.  I  don't 
know  why  but  that  touched  me  so  deeply  and  sharply  that 
I  felt,  suddenly,  as  though  in  another  instant  I  should  lose 
my  self-control.  It  was  so  unlike  him,  so  utterly  unlike 
him,  to  do  that.  I  trembled  a  little,  then  steadied  myself, 
and  we  walked  together  into  the  house.  They  must  all 
instantly  have  known  what  had  occurred  because  I  heard 
running  steps  and  sharp  anxious  voices. 

I  felt  desperately,  as  a  man  runs  when  he  is  afraid,  that 
I  must  be  alone.  I  slipped  away  into  the  passage  that  leads 
from  the  hall.  This  passage  was  quite  dark  and  I  was  feel- 
in  my  direction  with  my  hands  when  some  one,  carrying  a 


MAEIE  IVANOVNA  247 

candle,  turned  the  corner.  It  was  Trenchard.  He  raised 
the  candle  high  to  look  at  me. 

"Hallo,  Durward,"  he  cried.  "You're  back.  What  sort 
of  a  time  ?  .  .  ." 

I  told  him  at  once  what  had  occurred.  The  candle 
dropped  from  his  hand,  falling  with  a  sharp  clatter.  There 
was  a  horrible  pause,  both  of  us  standing  there  close  to  one 
another  in  the  sudden  blackness.  I  could  hear  his  fast 
nervous  breathing.  I  was  myself  unstrung  I  suppose,  be- 
cause I  remember  that  I  was  dreadfully  afraid  lest  Trench- 
ard should  do  something  to  me,  there,  as  we  stood. 

I  felt  his  hand  groping  on  my  clothes.  But  he  was  only 
feeling  his  way.  I  heard  his  steps,  creeping,  stumbling 
down  the  passage.     Once  I  thought  that  he  had  fallen. 

Then  there  was  silence,  and  at  last  I  was  alone. 


CHAPTEE  III 


THE    FOKEST 


A!ND  now  I  am  confronted  with  a  very  serious  difficulty. 
There  is  nothing  stranger  in  this  whole  business  of 
the  life  and  character  of  war  than  the  fashion  in  which 
an  atmosphere  that  has  been  of  the  intensest  character  can, 
by  the  mere  advance  or  retreat  of  a  pace  or  two,  disappear, 
close  in  upon  itself,  present  the  blindest  front  to  the  soul 
that  has,  a  moment  before,  penetrated  it.  It  is  as  though 
one  had  visited  a  house  for  the  first  time.  The  interior  is 
of  the  most  absorbing  and  unique  interest.  There  are  re- 
vealed in  it  beauties,  terrors,  of  so  sharp  a  reality  that  one 
believes  that  one's  life  is  changed  for  ever,  by  the  sight  of 
them.  One  passes  the  door,  closes  it  behind  one,  steps  into 
the  outer  world,  looks  back,  and  there  is  only  before  one's 
view  a  thick  cold  wall — ^the  windows  are  dead,  there  is  no 
sound,  only  bland,  dull,  expressionless  space.  Moreover 
this  dull  wall,  almost  instantly,  persuades  one  of  the  in- 
credibility of  what  one  has  seen.  There  were  no  beauties, 
there  were  no  terrors.  .  .  .  Ordinary  life  closes  round  one,- 
trivial  things  reassume  their  old  importance,  one  disbelieves 
in  fantastic  dreams. 

I  believe  that  every  one  who  has  had  experience  of  war 
will  admit  the  truth  of  this.  I  had  myself  already  known 
something  of  the  kind  and  had  wondered  at  the  fashion  in 
which  the  crossing  of  a  mere  verst  or  two  can  bring  the 
old  life  about  one.     I  had  known  it  during  the  battle  of 

248 


THE  FOREST  249 

S ,  in  the  days  that  followed  the  battle,  in  moments  of 

the  Retreat,  when  for  half  an  hour  we  would  suddenly  be 
laughing  and  careless  as  though  we  were  in  Petrograd. 

And  so  when  I  look  back  to  the  weeks  of  whose  history 
I  wish  now  to  give  a  truthful  account,  I  am  afraid  of  my- 
self. I  wish  to  give  nothing  more  than  the  facts,  and  yet 
that  something  that  is  more  than  the  facts  is  of  the  first, 
and  indeed  the  only,  importance.  Moreover  the  last  impres- 
sion that  I  wish  to  convey  is  that  war  is  a  hysterical  busi- 
ness.   I  believe  that  that  succession  of  days  in  the  forest  of 

S ,  the  experience  of  Nikitin,  Semyonov,  Audrey  Vas- 

silievitch,  Trenchard  and  myself — ^might  have  occurred  to 
any  one,  must  have  occurred  to  many  other  persons,  but 
from  the  cool  safe  foundation  on  which  now  I  stand  it 
cannot  but  seem  exceptional,  even  exaggerated.  Exagger- 
ated, in  very  truth,  I  know  that  it  is  not.  And  yet  this 
life — so  ordered,  so  disciplined,  so  rational,  and  that  life 
— where  do  they  join?  ...  I  penetrated  but  a  little  way; 
my  friends  penetrated  into  the  very  heart  .  .  .  and,  be- 
cause I  was  left  outside,  I  remain  the  only  possible  re- 
corder: but  a  recorder  who  can  offer  only  signs,  moments, 
glimpses  through  a  closing  door.  .  .  . 

I  am  waiting  now  for  the  return  of  my  opportunity. 

On  the  night  of  the  death  of  Marie  Ivanovna  I  slept  a 
heavy,  dreamless  sleep.  I  was  wakened  between  six  and 
seven  the  next  morning  by  Nikitin,  who  told  me  that  he, 
Trenchard,  Audrey  Vassilievitch  and  I  were  to  return  at 
once  to  the  forest.  I  realised  at  once  that  indescribable 
quiver  in  the  air  of  momentous  events.  The  house  was  quite 
still,  the  summer  morning  very  fresh  and  clear,  but  the  air 
was  weighted  with  some  crisis.  It  was  not  only  the  death 
of  Marie  Ivanovna  that  was  present  with  us,  it  was  rather 
something  that  told  us  that  now  no  individual  life  or  death 


250  THE  DAKK  FOREST 

counted  .  .  .  individualities,  personalities,  were  swallowed 
up  in  the  sweeping  urgency  of  a  great  climax.  Xikitin 
simply  told  me  that  a  furious  battle  was  raging  some  ten 
versts  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  that  we  were  to  go  at 
once  to  form  a  temporary  hospital  behind  the  lines  in  the 
Forest;  that  the  nurses  and  the  rest  of  the  Otriad  would 
remain  in  Mittovo  to  wait  for  the  main  tide  of  the  wounded, 
but  that  we  were  to  go  forward  to  help  the  army  doctors. 
He  spoke  very  quietly.  We  said  nothing  of  Marie  Ivan- 
ovna. 

I  dressed  quickly  and  on  going  out  found  the  wagons 
waiting,  some  fifteen  or  twenty  sanitars  and  Trenchard 
and  Audrey  Vassilievitch.  The  four  of  us  climbed  into 
one  of  the  wagons  and  set  off.  I  did  not  see  Semyonov. 
Trenchard  was  pale,  there  were  heavy  black  lines  under  his 
eyes — ^but  he  seemed  calm,  and  he  stared  in  front  of  him  as 
though  he  were  absorbed  by  some  concentrated  self-control. 
For  the  first  time  in  my  experience  of  him  he  seemed  to  me 
a  strong  independent  character. 

We  did  not  speak  at  all.  I  could  see  that  Audrey  Vas- 
silievitch was  nervous :  his  eyes  were  anxious  and  now  and 
then  he  moistened  his  lips  with  his  tongue.  When  we  had 
crossed  the  river  and  began  to  climb  the  hill  I  knew  that  I 
Tiated  the  Forest.  It  was  looking  beautiful  under  the  early 
morning  sun,  its  green  so  delicate  and  clear,  its  soft 
shadows  so  cool,  its  birds  singing  so  carelessly,  the  silver 
birches,  lines  of  light  against  the  dark  spaces ;  but  this  was 
all  to  me  now  as  though  it  had  been  arranged  by  some  ironic 
hand.  It  knew  well  enough  who  had  died  there  yesterday 
and  it  was  preparing  now,  behind  its  black  recesses,  a  rich 
harvest  for  its  malicious  spirit.  We  passed  through  the 
cholera  village  and  reached  the  white  house  of  yesterday  at 
about  ten  o'clock.    As  we  clattered  up  to  the  door  I  for  a 


THE  FOREST  251 

moment  closed  my  eyes.  I  felt  as  though  I  could  not  face 
the  horrible  place,  then  summoning  my  control  I  boldly 
challenged  it,  surveying  its  long  broken  windows,  its  high 
doorway,  its  sunny,  insulting  garden.  We  were  met  by  the 
stout  doctor,  whom  I  had  seen  before.  As  he  is  of  some 
importance  in  the  events  that  followed  I  will  mention  his 
name — Konstantine  Feodorovitch  Kryllow.  He  was  large 
and  stout,  a  true  Russian  type,  with  a  merry  laughing  face. 
He  had  the  true  Russian  spirit  of  unconquerable  irrational 
merriment.  He  laughed  at  everything  with  the  gaiety  of 
a  man  who  finds  life  too  preposterous  for  words.  He  had 
all  the  Russian  untidyness,  kindness  of  heart,  gay,  ironical 
pessimism.  "To-morrow"  was  a  word  unknov^m  to  him: 
nothing  was  sacred  to  him,  and  yet  at  times  it  seemed  as 
though  life  were  so  holy,  so  mysterious,  that  the  only  way 
to  keep  it  from  careless  eyes  was  by  laughing  at  it.  He  had 
no  principles,  no  plans,  no  prejudices,  no  reverences.  If  he 
wished  to  sleep  for  a  week  he  would  do  so,  if  he  wished  to 
eat  for  a  week  he  would  do  so.  If  he  died  to-morrow  he 
did  not  care  ...  it  was  all  so  absurd  that  it  was  not  worth 
while  to  give  it  any  attention.  He  would  grow  very  fat, 
he  would  die — ^he  would  love  women,  play  cards,  drink, 
quarrel,  give  his  life  for  a  sentimental  moment,  pour  every 
farthing  of  his  possessions  into  the  lap  of  a  friend,  incur 
debts  which  he  would  not  pay,  quarrel  wildly  with  a  man 
about  a  rouble,  remember  things  that  you  would  expect  him 
to  forget,  forget  everything  that  he  should  remember — a 
pagan,  a  saint,  a  blackguard,  a  hero — anything  you  please 
80  long  as  you  do  not  take  it  seriously. 

This  morning  he  was  dirty  and  looked  as  though  he  had 
slept  for  many  nights  without  taking  off  his  clothes — un- 
shaven, his  shirt  open  showing  his  hairy  chest,  his  eyes 
blinking  in  the  light. 


252  THE  DARK  FOREST 

"That's  good,"  he  said,  seeing  us.  "I've  got  to  be  off, 
leaving  the  place  to  you.  .  .  .  Fearful  time  they're  having 
over  there,"  pointing  across  the  garden.  "Yes,  five  versts 
away.  Plenty  of  work  in  a  minute.  Brought  food  with 
you?  Very  little  here."  Then  I  heard  him  begin,  as  he 
walked  into  the  house  with  Nikitin,  "Terrible  thing.  Doctor, 
about  your  Sister  yesterday.  .  .  .  Terrible.  .  .  .  I " 

I  remember  that  my  great  desire  was  that  I  should  not 
be  left  alone  with  Trenchard.  I  clung  to  Audrey  Vassilie- 
vitch,  and  a  poor  resource  he  was,  watching  with  nervous 
eyes  the  building  and  the  glimmering  forest,  dusting  his 
clothes  and  beginning  sentences  which  he  did  not  finish. 
Trenchard  was  quite  silent.  We  entered  the  horrible  room 
of  yesterday.  The  dirty  plate  and  the  sardine-tin  were  still 
there  with  the  flies  about  them :  the  highly  coloured  German 
supplement  watched  us  from  its  rakish  position  on  the  wall, 
the  treatise  on  I^ew  Mexico  was  lying  on  the  table.  I  picked 
up  the  book  and  it  opened  naturally  at  a  place  where  the  last 
reader  had  turned  down  the  comer  of  the  page.  The  same 
page  happens  to  be  quoted  exac.ly  in  Trenchard's  diary  on 
an  occasion  about  which  afterwards  I  shall  have  to  speak. 
There  is  an  account  of  the  year's  work  of  some  New  Mexi- 
can school  and  it  runs: 

**Besides  the  regular  class  work  there  have  been  other 
features  of  special  merit,  programmes  of  which  we  append : 

"Lectures :  Rev.  H.  W.  Ruffner,  Titles  and  Degrees ;  Mr. 
Fred  A.  Bush,  What  the  Community  owes  the  Newspaper 
and  what  the  Newspaper  owes  the  Community;  Dr.  E.  H. 
Woods,  Tuberculosis;  Rev.  I.  R.  Glass,  Fools;  Mr.  Eugene 
Warren,  Blood  of  the  Nation;  Dr.  L.  M.  Strong,  Ortho- 
pedics; Hon.  S.  M.  Ashenfelter,  Freedom  of  Effort;  Hon. 
W.  T.  Cessna,  Don't  Pay  too  dearly  for  the  Whistle;  Dr. 


THE  FOEEST  253 

O.  S.  Westlake,  The  Physician  and  the  Laity;  Prof.  Well- 
ington Putman,  Rip  Van  Winkle;  Rev.  R.  S.  Hanshaw, 
The  Mind's  Picture  Gallery;  Hon.  R.  M.  Turner,  Oppor- 
tunities. 

"Othello.  Eor  the  first  time  the  normal  students  pre- 
sented for  the  class-day  exercise  a  Shakespearian  play, 
Othello.  Cast  of  characters:  Othello,  E.  F.  Dunlavey; 
lago,  Douglas  Giffard;  Duke  of  Venice,  Charles  Harper; 
Brabantio,  Eugene  Cosgrove;  Cassio,  Arnold  Rosenfeld; 
Roderigo,  Erwin  Moore;  Montano,  Wilson  Portherfield; 
Lodovico,  Henry  Geitz;  Gratiano,  William  Fleming;  Des- 
demona,  Carrie  Whitehill ;  Emilia,  Gussie  Rodgers ;  Bianca, 
Florence  Otter;  senators,  officers,  messengers  and  attend- 
ants. 

"Graduating  Programme.  Music:  the  Anglo-Saxon  in 
History,  Douglas  Giffard;  the  Anglo-Saxon  in  Science. 
Florence  Otter;  the  Anglo-Saxon  in  Literature,  Gussie 
Rodgers;  Music;  annual  address,  Hon.  R.  M.  Turner; 
Music;  presentation  of  diplomas. 

"Doubtless  among  the  most  interesting  and  most  profitable 
events  of  the  institution  was  the  annual  society  contest  be- 
tween the  two  societies,  the  Literati  and  the  Lyceum.  The 
Silver  City  Commercial  Club  offered  a  costly  cup  to  the 
winning  society  and  it  was  won  by  the  Lyceum.  The  con- 
test was  in  oration,  elocution,  debate,  parliamentary  usage 
and  athletics. 

"The  inside  adornment  of  the  hall  has  not  been  neglected. 
A  number  of  portraits  and  a  large  number  of  carbon  prints 
of  celebrated  paintings  have  been  added,  the  class  picture 
being  the  most  important  and  costing  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  $100;  this  is  the  hunting  scene  of  Ruysdael.  Some  of 
the  others  are  'The  Parthenon,'  'The  Immaculate  Concep- 
tion'  by  Murillo,   and   'The  Allegoric  du   Printeraps'  by 


254  THE  DAKK  FOREST 

Botticelli.  Many  valuable  specimens  have  been  added  to 
the  museum:  among  these  are  minerals,  animals  and  vege- 
table products,  and  manufactured  articles  from  abroad 
illustrative  of  the  habits  and  customs  of  foreigners." 

I  give  this  page  in  full  because  it  was  afterwards  to  have 
importance,  though  at  the  time  I  glanced  at  it  only  care- 
lessly. But  I  remember  that  I  speculated  on  the  lecture  by 
the  Rev.  I.  R.  Glass  about  "Fools,"  that  I  admired  a  contest 
so  widely  extended  as  to  embrace  oration,  parliamentary 
usage  and  athletics,  that  I  liked  very  much  the  "class 
Ruysdael,"  "costing  in  the  neighbourhood  of  $100,"  and 
the  "manufactured  articles  from  abroad,  illustrative  of  the 
habits  and  customs  of  foreigners." 

N^ikitin  came  up  to  me.  "Will  you  please  set  off  at  once 
with  Mr.  to  Vulatch  ?"  he  said.  "Find  there  Colonel  Maxi- 
moff  and  get  direct  orders  from  him.  Return  as  soon  as 
possible.  They  say  we're  not  likely  to  have  wounded  until 
late  this  afternoon — a  good  thing  as  a  lot  wants  doing  to 
this  place.    Hasten,  Ivan  Andreievitch.    No  time  to  lose." 

Vulatch  was  a  little  town  situated  ten  versts  to  our  right 
in  the  Forest.  I  had  heard  of  its  strange  position  before, 
quite  a  town  and  yet  lying  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
Forest,  as  though  it  had  been  the  settlement  of  some 
early  colonists.  It  had  running  through  it  a  good  high 
road,  but  otherwise  was  far  removed  from  the  outer  world. 
It  had  during  the  war  been  twice  bombarded  and  was  now, 
I  believed,  ruined  and  deserted.  For  the  moment  it  was 
the  headquarters  of  the  Sixty-Fifth  Staff.  I  was  frankly 
frightened  of  going  alone  with  Trenchard — ^frightened  both 
of  myself  and  of  him.  I  told  him  and  without  a  word  he 
went  with  me.  When  we  started  off  in  the  wagon  I  looked 
^t  him.     He  was  sitting  on  the  straw,  very  quietly,  his 


THE  FOREST  255 

hands  folded,  looking  in  front  of  him.  He  seemed  older: 
the  sentimental  naivete  that  had  been  always  in  his  face 
seemed  now  entirely  to  have  left  him.  He  had  always 
looked  before  as  though  he  wanted  some  one  to  help  him 
out  of  a  position  that  was  too  diflficult  for  him ;  now  he  was 
alone  in  a  world  where  no  one  could  reach  him.  During  the 
whole  drive  to  Vulatch  we  exchanged  no  word.  The  sound  of 
the  cannon  was  distant  but  incessant,  and  strangely,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  we  were  alone.  Once  and  again  soldiers 
passed  us,  sometimes  wagons  with  kitchens  or  provisions  met 
us  on  the  road,  sometimes  groups  of  men  were  waiting  by  the 
roadside,  once  we  saw  them  setting  up  telegraph  wires,  once 
a  desolate  band  of  Austrian  prisoners  crossed  our  path, 
twice  wagons  with  wounded  rumbled  along — but  for  the 
most  part  we  were  alone.  We  were  out  of  the  main  track 
of  the  battle.  It  was  as  though  the  Forest  had  arranged 
this  that  it  might  the  more  impress  us.  Our  road,  although 
it  was  the  high  road,  was  rough  and  uneven  and  we  ad- 
vanced slowly:  with  every  step  that  the  horses  took  I  was 
the  more  conscious  of  a  sinister  and  malign  influence.  I 
know  how  easily  one's  nerves  can  lend  atmosphere  to  some- 
thing that  is  in  itself  innocent  and  harmless  enough,  but 
it  must  be  remembered  that  (at  this  time),  in  spite  of  what 
had  happened  yesterday,  neither  Trenchard's  nerves  nor 
mine  were  strained.  My  sensation  must,  I  think,  have 
closely  resembled  the  feelings  of  a  diver  who,  for  the  first 
time,  descends  below  the  water.  I  had  never  felt  anything 
like  this  before  and  there  was  quite  definitely  about  my  eyes, 
my  nose,  my  mouth,  a  feeling  of  suffocation.  I  can  only  say 
that  it  was  exactly  as  though  I  were  breathing  in  an  atmos- 
phere that  was  strange  to  me.  This  may  have  been  partly 
the  effect  of  the  sun  that  was  beating  down  very  strongly 
upon  us,  but  it  was  also,  curiously  enough,  the  result  of 


256  THE  DAKK  FOREST 

some  dimness  that  obscured  the  direct  path  of  one's  vision. 
On  every  side  of  our  rough  forest  road  there  were  black 
cavernous  spaces  set  here  and  there  like  caves  between 
sheets  of  burning  sunlight.  Into  these  caves  one's  gaze  sim- 
ply, could  not  penetrate,  and  the  light  and  darkness  shifted 
about  one  with  exactly  the  effect  of  stirring,  swaying  water. 
Although  the  way  was  quite  clear  and  the  road  broad  I  felt 
as  though  at  any  moment  our  advance  would  be  stopped  by 
an  impenetrable  barrier,  a  barrier  of  bristled  thickets,  of 
an  iron  wall,  of  a  sudden,  fathomless  precipice.  Of  course 
to  both  Trenchard  and  myself  there  were,  during  this  drive, 
thoughts  of  his  dream.  We  both  recognized,  although  at 
this  time  we  did  not  speak  of  it,  that  this  was  the  very 
place  that  had  now  grown  so  vivid  to  us.  "Ah,  this  is  how 
it  looks  in  sunlight !"  I  would  think  to  myself,  having  seen 
it  always  in  the  early  morning  and  cold.  Behind  me  the 
long  white  house,  the  hunters,  the  dogs.  .  .  .  No,  they  were 
not  here  in  the  burning  suffocating  sunlight,  but  they  would 
come — they  would  come ! 

The  monotony  of  the  place  emphasised  its  vastness.  It 
was  not,  I  suppose,  a  great  Forest,  but  to-day  it  seemed  as 
though  we  were  winding  further  and  further,  through  laby- 
rinth after  labyrinth  of  clouding  obscurity,  winding  towards 
some  destination  from  which  we  could  never  again  escape. 
"Pum — ^pum — pum,"  whispered  the  cannon;  "Whirr 
— ^whirr — whirr,"  the  shadowy  trembling  background 
echoed.  Then  with  a  sudden  lifting  of  the  curtain  Vulatch 
was  revealed  to  us.  Ruined  towns  and  villages  were,  by 
this  time,  no  new  sight  to  me,  but  this  place  was  different 
from  anything  that  I  had  ever  seen  before.  From  the  bend 
of  the  little  hill  we  looked  down  upon  it  and  the  sight  of 
it  made  me  shudder.  It  was  the  deadest  place,  the  deadest 
place  in  the  world — all  white  under  the  sun  it  lay  there 


THE  FOEEST  257 

like  the  bleached  bones  of  some  animal  picked  clean  long 
ago  by  the  birds. 

Not  a  sound  came  from  it,  not  a  movement  could  be  dis- 
cerned in  it.  I  could  see,  standing  out  straight  from  the 
heart  of  it,  what  must  have  been  once  a  fine  church.  It  had 
had  four  green  turrets  perched  like  little  green  bubbles  on 
white  towers;  three  of  these  were  still  there,  and  between 
them  stood  the  white  husk  of  the  place;  from  where  we 
watched  we  could  see  little  fires  of  blue  light  sparkling  like 
jewels  between  the  holes.  Over  it  all  was  a  strange  metallic 
glitter  as  though  we  were  seeing  through  glass,  glass  shaded 
very  faintly  green.  Under  this  green  shadow,  which  seemed 
very  gently  to  stain  the  air,  the  town  was  indeed  like  a  lost 
city  beneath  the  sea.  Catching  our  breaths  we  plunged 
down  into  the  fantastic  depths.'  .  .  . 

As  we  descended  the  hill  we  were  surprised  by  the  si- 
lence— ^not  a  soul  to  be  seen.  We  had  expected  to  find  the 
place  filled  with  the  soldiers  of  the  Sixty-Fifth  Division. 
Our  driver  on  this  day  was  the  man  Nikolai  whom  I  have 
mentioned  before  as  attaching  himself  from  the  very  begin- 
ning to  Trenchard's  service.  He  had  been  Trenchard's 
unofl5cial  servant  now  for  a  long  time,  saying  very  little, 
always  •  succeeding,  in  some  quiet  fashion  of  his  own,  in 
accompanying  Trenchard  on  his  expeditions.  Nikolai  was 
one  of  the  quietest  human  beings  I  have  ever  known.  His 
charming  ugly  face  was  in  repose  a  little  gloomy,  not 
thoughtful  so  much  as  expectant,  dreamy  perhaps  but  also 
very  practical  and  unidealistic.  His  smile  changed  all 
that;  in  a  moment  his  face  was  merry,  even  good-humour- 
edly  malicious,  suspicious,  and  a  little  ironical.  He  had 
the  thick  stolid  body  of  the  Russian  peasant  who  is  trained 
to  any  endurance,  any  misfortune  that  God  might  choose 
to  send  it.    His  attachment  to  Trenchard  had  been  so  un- 


258  THE  DAEK  TOKEST 

obtrusive  that  Molozov  had  officially  permitted  it  without 
realising  that  he  had  permitted  anything.  It  was  so  un- 
obtrusive that  I  myself  had  not,  during  these  last  weeks, 
noticed  it.  To-day  I  saw  Nikolai  glance  many  times  at 
Trenchard.  His  eyes  were  anxious  and  inquiring;  he 
looked  at  him  rather  as  a  dog  may  look  at  his  master,  al- 
though there  was  here  no  dumb  submission,  nor  any  senti- 
mental weakness.  ...  I  should  rather  say  that  Nikolai 
looked  at  Trenchard  as  one  free  man  may  look  at  another. 
"What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  his  eyes  seemed  to  say. 
"But  I  know  ...  a  terrible  thing  has  happened  to  you. 
At  any  rate  I  am  here  to  be  of  any  use  that  I  can." 

"Nikolai,"  I  said,  "why  is  there  no  one  here  ?" 

"Ne  mogoo  znat,  your  Honour." 

"Well,  the  first  soldier  you  see  you  must  ask.'* 

*'Tah  totchno." 

''Who  said  you  were  to  drive  us  ?" 

"Vladimir  Stepanovitch,  your  Honour." 

"Are  you  going  to  remain  with  us  ?" 

"Tak  totchno." 

His  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  Trenchard,  then  he 
turned  to  his  horses. 

We  were  entering  the  town  now  and  it  did,  indeed,  pre- 
sent to  us  a  scene  of  desperate  desolation.  The  place  had 
been  originally  built  in  rising  tiers  on  the  side  of  the  val- 
ley, and  the  principal  street  had  leading  out  of  it,  up  the 
hill,  steps  rising  to  balconied  houses  that  commanded  a  view 
of  the  opposite  hill.  Almost  every  house  in  this  street  was 
in  ruins;  sometimes  the  ruins  were  complete — only  an  iso- 
lated chinmey  of  broken  stone  wall  remaining,  sometimes 
the  shell  was  standing,  the  windows  boarded  up  with  wood, 
sometimes  almost  the  whole  building  was  there,  a  gaping 
space  in  the  roof  the  only  sign  of  desolation.    And  there  re- 


THE  FOKEST  259 

mained  the  ironical  signs  of  its  earlier  life.  Many  of  the 
buildings  had  their  titles  still  upon  them.  In  one  place  I 
saw  the  blackened  and  almost  illegible  plate  of  a  lawyer, 
in  another  a  large  still  fresh-looking  advertisement  of  a 
dentist,  here  there  was  the  large  lettering  "Tobacconist," 
there  upon  a  trembling  wall  the  tattered  remains  of  an  an- 
nouncement of  a  sale  of  furniture.  Once,  most  ironical  of 
all,  a  gaping  and  smoke-stained  building  showed  the  half- 
torn  remnant  of  a  cinematograph  picture,  a  fat  gentleman 
in  a  bowler  hat  entering  with  a  lady  on  either  arm  a  gaily 
painted  restaurant.  Over  this,  in  big  letters,  the  word 
"FARCE." 

Although  we  saw  no  soldiers  we  were  not  entirely  alone. 
In  and  out  of  the  sunny  caverns,  appearing  outlined  against 
the  darkness,  vanishing  in  a  sudden  blaze  of  light,  were 
shadows  of  the  citizens  of  Vulatch.  They  seemed  to  me, 
without  exception,  to  be  Jews.  From  most  of  the  Galician 
towns  and  villages  the  Jews  had  been  expelled — ^here  they 
only,  apparently,  had  been  left.  Of  women  I  saw  scarcely 
any — old  men,  with  long  dirty  black  or  grizzled  beards, 
yellow  skins,  peaked  black  caps,  and  filthy  black  gowns 
clutched  about  their  thin  bodies.  They  watched  us,  silently, 
ominously,  maliciously.  They  crept  from  door  to  door,  stole 
up  the  stone  steps  and  vanished,  appeared,  as  it  seemed, 
right  beneath  our  horses'  feet  and  disappeared.  If  we 
caught  them  with  our  eyes  they  bowed  with  a  loathsome, 
trembling  subservience.  There  were  many  little  Jewish 
children,  with  glittering  eyes,  naked  feet,  bare  scrubby 
heads  and  white  faces.  Nikolai  at  length  caught  an  old 
man  and  asked  him  where  the  soldiers  were.  The  old  man 
replied  in  very  tolerable  Russian  that  all  the  soldiers  had 
gone  last  night — not  one  of  them  remained^ ^but  he  believed 


260  THE  DAEK  FOREST 

that  some  more  were  shortly  to  arrive.  They  were  always 
coming  and  going,  he  said. 

We  stayed  where  we  were,  under  the  blazing  sun,  and 
held  council.  In  every  doorway,  in  every  shadow,  there 
were  eyes  watching  us.  The  whole  town  was  overweighted, 
overwhelmed  by  the  brooding  Forest.  From  where  we 
stood  I  could  see  it  rising  on  every  side  of  us  like  a  trem- 
bling, threatening  green  wave;  in  the  furious  heat  of  the 
sun  the  white  ruins  seemed  to  jump  and  leap. 

"Well,"  I  said  to  Trenchard,  "what's  to  be  done  ?" 

He  pulled  himself  back  from  his  thoughts. 

He  had  been  sitting  in  the  cart,  quite  motionless,  his  face 
white  and  hidden,  as  though  he  slept.  He  raised  his  tired, 
heavy  eyes  to  my  face. 

"Do?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  I  answered  impatiently.  "Didn't  you  hear  what 
Nikolai  said?  There  are  no  soldiers  here.  We  can't  find 
Maximoff  because  he  isn't  here.  We  must  go  back,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Very  well,"  he  answered  indifferently. 

"I'm  not  going  back,"  I  said,  "until  I've  had  something 
to  drink — tea  or  coffee.  I  wonder  whether  there's  anything 
here — any  place  we  could  go  to." 

Nikolai  inquired.  Old  Shylock  pointed  with  his  bony 
finger  down  the  street. 

"Very  fine  restaurant  there,"  he  said. 

"Will  you  come  and  see?"  I  asked  Trenchard. 

"Very  well,"  said  Trenchard. 

I  told  Nikolai  to  stay  there  and  wait  for  us.  I  walked 
down  the  street,  followed  by  Trenchard.  I  found  on  my 
left,  at  the  top  of  a  little  flight  of  steps,  a  house  that  was 
for  the  most  part  untouched  by  the  general  havoc  around 
and  about  it.     The  lower  windows  were  cracked  and  the 


THE  FOKEST  261 

door  open  and  gaping,  but  there  stood,  quite  bravely  with 
new  paint,  the  word  " Restoratoin"  on  the  lintel  and  there 
were  even  curtains  about  the  upper  windows.  Passing 
through  the  door  we  found  a  room  decently  clean,  and  be- 
hind the  little  bar  a  stout  red-faced  Galician  in  white  shirt 
and  grey  trousers,  a  citizen  of  the  normal  world.  We  were 
just  then  his  only  customers.  We  asked  him  for  tea  and 
sat  down  at  a  little  table  in  the  comer  of  the  room.  He 
did  not  talk  to  us  but  stood  in  his  place  humming  cheer- 
fully to  himself  and  cleaning  glasses.  He  was  a  rogue,  I 
thought,  looking  at  his  little  eyes,  but  at  any  rate  a  merry 
rogue;  he  certainly  had  kept  off  from  him  the  general 
death  and  desolation  that  had  overwhelmed  his  neighbours. 
I  sat  opposite  to  Trenchard  and  wondered  what  to  say  to 
him.  His  expression  had  never  varied.  As  I  looked  at  him 
I  could  not  but  think  of  the  strength  of  his  eyes,  of  his 
mouth,  the  quiet  concentration  of  his  hands  ...  a  differ- 
ent figure  from  the  smiling  uncertain  man  on  the  Petro- 
grad  station — how  many  years  ago? 

Our  tea  was  brought  to  us.     Then  quite  suddenly  Tren- 
chard said  to  me: 

"Did  she  say  anything  before  she  died  ?" 

"No,"  I  answered  quietly.    "She  died  instantly,  they  told 
me." 

"How  exactly  was  she  killed?" 

His  eyes  watched  my  face  without  falter,  clearly,  gravely, 
steadfastly. 

■  "She  was  killed  by  a  bullet.  Stepped  out  from  be- 
hind her  shelter  and  it  happened  at  once.  She  can  have 
suffered  nothing." 

"And  Semyonov  let  her?" 

"He  could  not  have  prevented  it.     It  might  have  hap- 
pened to  any  one." 


262  THE  DARK  FOREST 

"I  would  have  prevented  it,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head 
gravely. 

He  was  silent  for  a  little;  then  with  a  sudden  jerk  he 
said: 

"Where  has  she  gone  ?" 

"Gone  ?"  I  repeated  stupidly  after  him. 

"Yes — that's  not  death — to  go  like  that.  She  must  be 
somewhere  still — somewhere  in  this  beastly  forest.  What 
— afterwards — when  you  saw  her — what?  .  .  .  her 
face?  .  .  ." 

"She  looked  very  peaceful — quite  happy." 

"No  restlessness  in  her  face?    No  anxiety?" 

"None." 

"But  all  that  life — ^that  energy.  It  can't  have  stopped. 
Quite  suddenly.  It  cant  She  can't  have  wanted  not  to 
know  all  those  things  that  she  was  so  eager  about  before." 
He  was  suddenly  voluble,  excited,  leaning  forward,  staring 
at  me.  "You  know  how  she  was.  You  must  have  seen  it 
numbers  of  times — ^how  she  never  looked  at  any  of  us  really, 
how  we  were  none  of  us — no,  not  even  Semyonov — any- 
thing to  her  really;  always  staring  past  us,  wanting  to  know 
the  answer  to  questions  that  we  couldn't  solve  for  her.  She 
wouldn't  give  it  all  up  simply  for  nothing,  simply  for  a 
bullet  .  .  ."  he  broke  off. 

"Look  here,  Trenchard,"  I  said,  "try  not  to  think  of 
her  just  now  more  than  you  can  help,  just  now.  We're  in 
for  a  stiff  time,  I  believe.  This  will  be  our  last  easy  after- 
noon, I  fancy,  and  even  now  we  ought  to  be  back  helping 
Nikitin.  You've  got  to  work  all  you  know.  One's  nerves 
get  wrong  easily  enough  in  a  place  like  this — and  after  what 
has  happened  I  feel  this  damned  Forest  already.  But  we 
mustn't  let  our  nerves  go.  We've  simply  got  to  work  and 
think  about  nothing  at  all — think  about  nothing  at  all." 


THE  FOREST  263 

I  don't  believe  that  he  heard  me. 

"Semyonov  ?"  he  said  slowly.    "What  did  he  do  ?" 

"He  was  very  quiet,"  I  answered.  "He  didn't  say  any- 
thing.   He  looked  awful." 

"Yes.  She  snapped  her  fingers  at  him  anyway.  He 
couldn't  keep  her  for  all  his  bullying." 

"It  pretty  well  killed  him,"  I  said  rather  fiercely.  "Look 
here,  Trenchard.  Don't  think  of  yourself — or  of  her. 
Every  one's  in  it  now.  There  isn't  any  personality  about 
it.  We've  simply  got  to  do  our  best  and  not  think  about  it. 
It's  thinking  that  beats  one  if  one  lets  it." 

"Semyonov  .  .  .  Semyonov,"  he  repeated  to  himself, 
smiling.  "No,  he  had  not  power  over  her."  Then  looking 
at  me  very  calmly,  he  remarked :  "This  Death,  you  know, 
Durward.  ...  It  simply  doesn't  exist.  It  can't  stop  her. 
It  can't  stop  any  one  if  they're  determined.  I'll  find  her 
before  Semyonov  does,  too." 

Then,  as  though  he  had  waked  from  sleep,  he  said  to  me, 
his  voice  trembling  a  little:  "Am  I  talking  queer ly,  Dur- 
ward ?  If  I  am,  don't  think  anything  of  it.  It's  this  heat 
— and  this  place.  Let's  get  back."  He  only  spoke  once 
more.  He  said :  "Do  you  remember  that  first  drive — ages 
ago,  when  we  saw  the  trenches  and  heard  the  frogs  and  I 
thought  there  was  some  one  there?" 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "I  remember." 
"Well,  it's  rather  like  that  now,  isn't  it  ?" 
A  pretty  girl,  twenty-two  or  twenty-three  years  of  age, 
obviously  the  daughter  of  the  red-faced  proprietor,  came 
up  to  us  and  asked  us  if  we  would  like  any  more  tea.  She 
would  be  stout  later  on,  her  red  cheeks  were  plump  and 
her  black  hair  arranged  coquettishly  in  little  shining  curls. 
She  smiled  on  us. 

"No  more  tea  ?"  she  said. 


264  THE  DARK  FOREST 

"'No  more,"  I  answered. 

"You  will  not  be  staying  here  ?" 

"JSTot  to-night." 

"We  have  a  nice  room  here." 

"Wo,  thank  you." 

"Perhaps  one  of  you " 

"No.    We  are  returning  to-night." 

"Perhaps,  for  an  hour  or  two."  Then  smiling  at  me 
and  laughing  a  little,  "I  have  known  many  officers  .  .  . 
very  many." 

"No,  thank  you,"  I  said  sternly. 

"I  have  a  sister,"  she  said.  She  turned,  crying :  "Marie, 
Marie!" 

A  little  girl,  who  could  not  have  been  more  than  four- 
teen years  of  age,  appeared  from  the  background.  She  also 
was  red-cheeked  and  plump ;  her  hair  also  was  arranged  in 
black,  shining  curls.  She  stood  looking  at  us,  half  smil- 
ing, half  defiant,  sucking  her  finger. 

"She  also  has  known  officers,"  said  the  girl.  "She  would 
be  very  glad,  if  you  cared " 

I  heard  their  father  behind  the  bar  humming  to  himself. 

"Come  out  of  this !"  I  said  to  Trenchard.    "Come  away !" 

He  followed  me  quietly,  bowing  very  politely  to  the  star- 
ing sisters.  .  .  . 

"Go  on,"  I  said  to  Nikolai.  "Drive  on.  No  time  to 
waste.    We've  got  work  to  do." 

On  our  return  we  found  that  the  press  of  work  was  not 
as  yet  severe.  Half  the  building  belonged  to  us,  the  re- 
maining half  being  used  by  the  officers  of  the  battery. 
Nikitin  had  arranged  a  large  room,  that  must  I  think  have 
been  a  dining-room  in  happier  days,  with  beds ;  to  the  right 
was  the  operating-room,  overhead  were  our  bedrooms  and 
the  room  where  originally  I  had  sat  with  Marie  Ivanovna 


THE  FOEEST  265 

was  a  general  meeting  place.  The  officers  of  the  battery, 
two  middle-aged  and  two  very  young  indeed,  were  ex- 
tremely courteous  and  begged  us  to  make  use  of  them  in  any 
way  possible.  They  were  living  in  the  raggedest  fashion, 
a  week's  growth  of  beard  on  their  chins,  their  beds  unmade, 
the  floor  littered  with  ends  of  cigarettes,  pieces  of  paper, 
journals. 

"Been  here  weeks,"  they  apologetically  explained  to  us. 
"Come  in  and  have  a  meal  with  us  whenever  you  like." 
They  resembled  animals  in  a  cave.  When  they  were  not 
on  duty  they  played  chemin-de-fer  and  slept.  Meanwhile 
for  three  days  and  nights  our  work  was  slight.  The  battle 
drew  further  away  into  the  Forest.  Wagons  with  wounded 
came  to  us  only  at  long  intervals. 

The  result  of  these  three  days  was  a  strange  new  intimacy 
between  the  four  of  us.  I  have  never  in  all  my  life  seen 
anything  more  charming  than  the  behaviour  of  Nikitin 
and  Audrey  Vassilievitch  to  Trenchard.  There  is  some- 
thing about  Russian  kindness  that  is  both  simpler  and  more 
tactful  than  any  other  kindness  in  the  world.  Tact  is  too 
often  another  name  for  insincerity,  but  Russian  kindheart- 
edness  is  the  most  honest  impulse  in  the  Russian  soul,  the 
quality  that  comes  first,  before  anger,  before  injustice,  be- 
fore prejudice,  before  slander,  before  disloyalty,  and  over- 
rides them  alL  They  were,  of  course,  conscious  that  Tren- 
chard's  case  was  worse  than  their  own.  Marie  Ivanovna's 
death  had  shocked  them,  but  she  had  been  outside  their 
lives  and  already  she  was  fading  from  them.  Trenchard 
was  another  matter.  Nikitin  seemed  to  me  for  the  first  time 
in  my  knowledge  of  him  to  come  down  from  his  idealistic 
dreaming.  He  cared  for  Trenchard  like  a  child,  but  never 
obtrusively.  Trenchard  seemed  to  appreciate  it,  but  there 
was  something  about  him  that  I  did  not  like.    His  nerves 


266  THE  DARK  FOREST 

were  tensely  strained,  he  did  his  work  with  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  some  impossible  distance,  he  often  did  not  hear  us 
when  we  spoke  to  him. 

And  so  the  three  of  us  formed  a  kind  of  hedge  about 
him  to  protect  him,  a  hedge  of  which  he  was  perfectly  un- 
conscious. He  was  very  silent  and  I  would  have  given  a 
great  deal  to  hear  again  one  of  those  Glebeshire  stories  that 
I  had  once  found  so  tiresome.  That  some  plan  or  purpose 
was  in  his  head  one  could  not  doubt. 

We  had,  all  of  us,  much  in  common  in  our  characters. 
We  liked  the  sentimental  easy  coloured  view  of  life.  We 
suddenly  felt  a  strange  freedom  here  in  this  place.  Eor 
myself,  on  the  third  day,  I  found  that  Marie  Ivanovna  was 
most  strangely  present  with  me,  and  on  the  afternoon  of 
that  day,  our  wounded  quiet  on  their  beds,  our  wagons  sent 
into  the  tent  with  no  prospect  of  their  return  for  several 
hours,  we  sat  together,  N'ikitin,  Audrey  Vassilievitch  and  I, 
looking  out  through  a  break  in  the  garden  towards  the 
Eorest,  and  talked  about  her.  The  weather  was  now  very 
heavy — certainly  a  thunderstorm  was  coming.  I  was  also 
weighted  down  by  an  intense  desire  for  sleep,  at  the  same 
time  knowing  that  if  I  were  to  fling  myself  on  my  bed  sleep 
would  not  come  to  me.  This  is  an  experience  that  is  not  un- 
usual at  the  Front,  and  oflScers  have  told  me  that  in  the 
middle  of  a  battle  when  there  comes  a  sudden  lull,  their 
longing  for  sleep  has  been  so  overpowering  that  no  immi- 
nent danger  could  lift  it  from  their  eyes. 

We  sat  there  then  and  talked  in  low  voices  of  Marie 
Ivanovna.  I  was  aware  of  the  buzzing  of  the  flies,  of  the 
dull  yellow  light  beyond  the  windows,  of  the  Forest  crouch- 
ing a  little  as  it  seemed  to  me  like  a  creature  who  expects 
a  blow.  We  were  all  half  asleep  perhaps,  the  room  dark 
behind  us,  and  we  talked  of  her  as  we  might  talk  of  a 


THE  FOEEST  267 

picture,  a  book,  an  experience  ended  and  dismissed — some- 
thing outside  our  present  affairs.  And  yet  I  knew  that 
for  me  at  any  rate  she  was  not  outside  them.  I  felt  as 
though  at  any  moment  she  might  enter  the  room.  We  dis- 
cussed her  aloofness,  her  sudden  happiness  and  her  sudden 
distress,  her  intimacies  and  withdrawals,  Nikitin  and  Au- 
drey Vassilievitch  slowly  elaborating  her  into  a  high  ro- 
mantic figure.  Behind  her,  behind  all  our  thoughts  of  her, 
there  was  the  presence  of  Semyonov.  Nothing  was  stranger 
during  our  time  here  than  the  way  that  Semyonov  had 
always  kept  us  company. 

Our  consciousness  of  relief  from  him  had  begun  it.  We 
had  been  more  under  his  influence  than  any  of  us  had  cared 
to  confess  and,  in  his  presence,  had  checked  our  natural 
impulses.  I  also  was  strongly  aware  of  him  through  Tren- 
chard.  Trenchard  seemed  now  to  have  a  horror  of  him  that 
could  be  explained  only  by  the  fact  that  he  held  him  respon- 
sible for  Marie  Ivanovna's  death.  "It's  a  good  thing,"  I 
thought  to  myself,  "that  Semyonov's  not  here." 

These  hours  of  waiting,  when  there  was  nothing  to  do, 
was  bad  for  all  our  nerves.  Upon  this  afternoon  I  remem- 
ber that  after  a  time  silence  fell  between  us.  We  were  all 
staring  in  front  of  us,  seeing  pictures  of  other  places  and 
other  people.  I  was  aware,  as  I  always  was,  of  the  For- 
est, seeing  it  shine  with  its  sinister  green  haze,  seeing  the 
white  bleached  town,  the  huddled  villagers  waiting  for  their 
food,  but  seeing  yet  more  vividly  the  deep  silences,  the  dark 
hollows,  the  silent  avenues  of  silver  birch.  Against  thig 
were  the  figures  of  the  people  who  were  dear  to  me.  It  is 
strange  how  war  selects  and  brings  forward  as  one's  eternal 
company  the  one  or  two  souls  who  have  been  of  importance 
in  one's  life.  One  knows  then,  in  those  long,  long  threat- 
ening pauses,  when  the  battle  seems  to  gather  itself  to- 


268  THE  DAEK  FOEEST 

gether  before  it  thunders  its  next  smashing  blow,  those  who 
are  one's  true  companions.  Certain  English  figures  were 
now  with  me  outlined  against  the  Forest — and  joined  to- 
gether with  them  Marie  Ivanovna  as  I  had  last  seen  her, 
turning  round  to  me  by  the  door  and  smiling  upon  me.  I 
did  truthfully  feel,  as  Trenchard  had  said  to  me,  that  she 
was  not  dead;  I  sat,  staring  before  me,  conjuring  her  to 
appear.  The  others  also  sat  there,  staring  in  front  of  them. 
Were  they  also  summoning  some  figure  ?  I  knew,  as  though 
Audrey  Vassilievitch  had  told  me,  that  he  was  thinking  of 
his  wife.     And  Nikitin?  .  .  . 

He  sat  there,  lying  back  on  the  old  sofa  that  Marie  had 
used,  his  black  beard,  his  long  limbs,  his  dark  eyes  giving 
him  the  colour  of  some  Eastern  magician.  He  did  indeed, 
with  his  intense,  absorbed  gaze,  seem  to  be  casting  a  spell. 
As  I  looked  Audrey  Vassilievitch  caught  his  glance — they 
exchanged  the  strangest  flash — something  that  was  intimate 
and  yet  foreign,  something  appealing  and  yet  hostile.  It 
was  as  though  Andrey  Vassilievitch  had  said;  "I  know 
you  are  thinking  of  her.  Leave  her  to  me,"  and  Nikitin 
had  replied :  "My  poor  friend.  What  can  you  do  ?  ...  I 
do  as  I  please." 

I  know  at  least  that  I  saw  Andrey  Vassilievitch  frown, 
make  as  though  he  would  get  up  and  leave  the  room,  then 
think  better  of  it,  and  sink  back  into  his  chair. 

I  remember  that  just  at  that  moment  Trenchard  entered. 
He  joined  us  and  sat  on  the  sofa  near  Nikitin  without 
speaking,  staring  in  front  of  him  like  the  rest  of  us.  His 
face  was  tired  and  old,  his  cheeks  hollow. 

I  waited  and  the  silence  began  to  get  on  my  nerves.  Then 
there  came  an  interruption.  The  door  opened  quite  si- 
lently: we  all  turned  our  eyes  towards  it  without  moving 
our  heads.    In  the  doorway  stood  Semyonov. 


THE  FOEEST  269 

We  were  startled  as  though  by  a  ghost.  I  remember  that 
Andrey  Vassilievitch  jumped  to  his  feet,  crying.  Trenchard 
never  moved.  Semyonov  with  his  usual  stolid  self-posses- 
sion came  towards  us,  greeted  us,  then  turning  to  me  said : 

"I've  come  to  take  your  place,  Ivan  Andreievitch." 

"My  place  ?"  I  stammered. 

"Yes.  You're  wanted  there.  You're  to  return  at  once 
in  the  hritchJca.  ...  In  half  an  hour,  if  you  don't  mind.'* 

"And  you'll  stay?" 

"And  I'll  stay." 

'N'o  one  else  said  anything.  I  remember  that  I  had  some 
half -intention  of  protesting,  of  begging  to  be  allowed  to  re- 
main. But  I  was  no  match  for  Semyonov.  I  could  fancy 
the  futility  of  my  saying :  "But  really,  Alexei  Petrovitch, 
we  don't  want  you  here.  It's  much  better  to  leave  me. 
You'll  upset  them  all.  It's  a  nervous  place,  this."  I  said 
nothing,  except:  "All  right.  I'll  go."  He  watched  me. 
He  watched  us  all.    I  fancy  that  he  smiled. 

Outside  I  had  a  desperate  absurd  thought  that  I  would 
return  and  ask  him  to  be  kind  to  Trenchard.  As  I  turned 
away  some  one  seemed  to  whisper  in  my  ear : 

"He's  come,  you  know,  to  find  Marie  Ivanovna." 


CHAPTEK   IV 

FOUE? 

"OEFOEE  I  give  the  extracts  from  Trencliard's  diary 
■*-^  that  follow  I  would  like  to  say  that  I  do  not  believe 
that  Trenchard  had  any  thought  whatever,  as  he  wrote,  of 
publication.  He  says  quite  clearly  that  he  wrote  simply 
for  his  own  satisfaction  and  later  interest.  At  the  same 
time  I  am  convinced  that  he  would  not  now  object  to  their 
publication.  If  he  had  been  here  he  would,  I  know,  have 
supported  my  intention.  The  diary  lies  before  me,  here  on 
my  table,  written  in  two  yellow,  stiif-covered  manuscript 
books  without  lines.  They  are  written  very  unevenly  and 
untidily,  with  very  few  erasures,  but  at  times  incoherently 
and  with  gaps.  In  one  place  he  has  cut  from  the  news- 
paper Kupert  Brooke's  sonnet,  beginning: 

"Blow  out,  you  Bugles,  over  the  rich  Dead!'* 

and  pasted  it  on  to  the  blank  page. 

At  times  he  sticks  on  to  the  other  pages  newspaper  de- 
scriptions that  have  pleased  him.  His  own  descriptions 
of  the  Forest  seem  to  me  influenced  by  my  talks  with  him, 
and  I  remember  that  it  was  Nikitin  who  spoke  of  the  light 
like  a  glass  ball  and  of  the  green-like  water.  For  the  most 
part  he  exhibits,  from  the  beginning  of  the  diary  to  the  end, 
extreme  practical  common  sense  and  he  makes,  I  fancy,  a 
very  strong  effort  to  record  quite  simply  and  even  naively 

270 


FOUE?  271 

the  truth  as  he  sees  it.  At  other  times  he  is  quite  frankly 
incoherent.  .  .  . 

I  will  give,  on  another  page,  my  impression  of  him 
when  I  saw  him  on  my  return  to  the  Forest.  I  am,  of 
course,  in  no  way  responsible  for  inconsistencies  or  irrele- 
vances. He  had  kept  a  diary  since  his  first  coming  to  the 
war  and  I  have  already  given  some  extracts  from  it.  The 
earlier  diary,  in  one  place  only,  namely  his  account  of  his 
adventure  during  his  night  with  Nikitin,  is  of  the  full  de- 
scriptive order.  That  one  occasion  I  have  already  quoted 
in  its  entirety.  With  that  exception  the  early  diary  is  brief 
and  concerned  only  with  the  dryest  recital  of  events.  After 
the  death  of  Marie  Ivanovna,  however,  its  character  entirely 
changes  for  reasons  which  he  himself  shows.  I  would  have 
expected  perhaps  a  certain  solemnity  or  even  pomposity  in 
the  style  of  it ;  he  had  never  a  strong  sense  of  humour.  But 
I  find  it  written  in  the  very  simplest  fashion;  words  here 
and  there  are  misspelt  and  his  handwriting  is  large  and 
round  like  a  schoolboy's. 

"Thursday,  July  29  th.  I  intend  to  write  this  diary  with 
great  fulness  for  two  reasons — in  the  first  place  because  I 
can  see  that  it  is  of  the  greatest  importance,  if  one  is  to  get 
through  this  business  properly,  to  leave  no  hours  empty. 
The  trying  thing  in  this  affair  is  having  nothing  to  do — 
nothing  one  can  possibly  do.  They  all,  officers,  soldiers, 
from  Nikolai  Nikolaievitch  to  my  Nikolai  here,  will  tell 
you  that.  No  empty  hours  for  me  if  I  can  help  it.  .  .  . 
Secondly,  I  really  do  wish  to  record  exactly  my  experiences 
here.  I  am  perfectly  aware  that  when  I'm  out  of  it  all, 
when  it's  even  a  day's  march  behind  me,  I  shall  regard 
it  as  frankly  incredible — not  the  thing  itself  but  the  way 
I  felt  about  it.  When  I  come  out  of  it  into  the  world  again 
I  shall  be  overwhelmed  with  other  people's  impressions  of 


272  THE  DAEK  FOEEST 

it,  people  far  cleverer  than  I.  There  will  be  brilliant  de- 
scriptions of  battles,  of  what  it  feels  like  to  be  under  fire, 
of  marches,  victories,  retreats,  wounds,  death — everything. 
I  shall  forget  what  my  own  little  tiny  piece  of  it  was  like 
— and  I  don't  want  to  forget.  I  want  intensely  to  remem- 
ber the  truth  always,  because  the  truth  is  bound  up  with 
Marie,  and  Marie  with  the  truth.  Why  need  I  be  shy  now 
about  her?  Why  should  I  hesitate,  under  the  fear  of  my 
own  later  timidity,  of  saying  exactly  now  what  I  feel  ?  God 
knows  what  I  do  feel!  I  am  confused,  half-numb,  half- 
dead,  I  believe,  with  moments  of  fiery  biting  realisation. 
I'm  neither  sad,  nor  happy — only  breathlessly  expectant. 
The  only  adventure  I  have  ever  had  in  my  life  is  not — ^no,  it 
is  not — yet  ended.  And  I  know  that  Marie  could  not 
have  left  me  like  that,  without  a  word,  unless  she  were 
returning  or  were  going  to  send  for  me. 

Meanwhile  to-day  a  beastly  thing  has  happened,  a  thing 
that  will  make  life  much  harder  for  me  here.  All  the 
morning  there  was  work.  Bandaged  twenty — ^had  fifty  in 
altogether — sent  thirty-four  on,  kept  the  rest.  Two  died 
during  the  morning.  This  isn't  really  a  good  place  to  be, 
it's  so  hemmed  in  with  trees.  We  ought  to  be  somewhere 
more  open.  The  Forest  is  unhealthy,  too.  There's  been 
fighting  in  and  out  of  it  almost  since  the  war  began — it 
cant  be  healthy.  In  this  hot  weather  the  place  smells.  .  .  . 
Then  there  are  the  Flies.  I  write  them  with  a  capital  let- 
ter because  I've  got  to  keep  my  head  about  the  Flies.  Does 
any  one  at  home  or  away  from  this  infernal  strip  of  fighting 
realise  what  flies  are  ?  Of  course  one's  read  of  the  tropical 
sorts,  all  red  and  stinging,  or  white  and  bloated — what  you 
like,  evil  and  horrid,  but  these  here  are  just  the  ordinary 
household  kind.  Quite  ordinary,  but  sheets,  walls  of  them. 
1  came  into  the  little  larder  place  near  our  sitting-room 


rOUE  ?  273 

this  morning.  I  thought  they'd  painted  the  walls  black 
during  the  night.  Then,  at  my  taking  the  cover  off  some 
sugar,  it  was  exactly  as  though  the  walls  hovered  and  then 
fell  inward  breaking  into  black  dust  as  they  fell.  They'll 
cluster  over  a  drop  of  wine  on  the  table  just  like  an  evil 
black  flower  with  grey  petals.  With  one's  body  they  can 
play  tricks  beyond  belief.  They  laugh  at  one,  hovering  at  a 
distance,  waiting.  They  watch  one  with  their  wicked  little 
eyes  .  .  .  yes,  I  shall  have  to  be  careful  about  flies. 

I've  had  a  headache  all  day,  but  then  in  the  afternoon 
there  was  a  thunderstorm  hovering  somewhere  near  and 
there  was  no  work  to  do.  I  feel  tired,  too,  and  yet  I  can't 
sleep.  Later  in  the  afternoon  we  were  all  sitting  together, 
very  quiet,  not  talking.  I  was  thinking  about  Semyonov 
then.  I  wondered  whether  he  felt  her  death.  How  had  he 
taken  it  ?  Durward  would  tell  me  so  little.  I  was  so  glad, 
all  the  same,  that  he  wasn't  here.  And  yet,  in  the  strang- 
est way,  I  would  like  to  have  spoken  to  him,  to  have  asked 
him,  if  I  had  dared,  a  little  about  her.  He  was  the  only 
man  to  whom  she  really  gave  herself.  I  don't  grudge  him 
that — ^but  there's  so  much  that  I  want  to  know — and  yet 
I'd  die  rather  than  ask  him.  Die!  That's  an  old  phrase 
now — death  would  tell  me  much  more  than  Semyonov  ever 
could.  Just  when  we  were  sitting  there  he  came  in.  It 
was  the  most  horrible  shock.  I  don't  want  to  put  it  melo- 
dramatically but  that  was  exactly  what  it  was.  I  had  been 
thinking  of  him,  thinking  even  of  speaking  to  him,  but  I 
had  known  at  the  time  that  he  wasn't  here,  that  he  couldn't 
be  here — then  there  he  was  in  the  doorway — square  and 
solid  and  grave  and  scornful.  Now  the  horrible  thing  is 
that  the  moment  I  realised  him  I  felt  afraid.  I  didn't  feel 
anger  or  hatred  or  fine  desires  for  revenge — anything  like 
that — simply  a  miserable  contemptible  fear.    It  seems  that 


274  THE  DARK  FOEEST 

as  soon  as  I  climb  out  of  one  fear  I  tumble  into  another. 
They  are  not  physical  now,  but  worse! 

Later.  The  last  bit  seems  rather  silly.  But  I'll  leave  it. 
...  As  to  Semyonov.  Of  course  he  was  very  quiet  and 
scornful  with  all  of  us.  He  told  Durward  that  he'd  come 
to  take  his  place  and  Durward  went  without  a  word.  Sem- 
yonov went  off  then  with  Nikitin,  looking  about,  and  mak- 
ing suggestions!  He  changed  some  things  but  not  very 
much.  We  had  been  pretty  intimate,  all  of  us,  before  he 
came.  I  had  really  felt  this  last  day  that  Vladimir  Ste- 
panovitch  and  Audrey  Vassilievitch  were  understood  by 
me.  Russians  come  and  go  so.  At  one  moment  they  are 
close  to  you,  intimate,  open-hearted,  then  suddenly  they 
shut  up,  are  miles  away,  look  at  you  with  distrust  and  sus- 
picion. So  with  these  two.  On  Semyonov's  arrival  they 
changed  absolutely.  He  shut  them  up  of  course.  We  were 
all  as  gloomy  at  supper  as  though  we  were  deadly  enemies. 
But  the  worst  thing  was  at  night.  Durward  and  I  had  slept 
in  one  little  room,  Vladimir  Stepanovitch  and  Audrey  Vas- 
silievitch in  another.  Of  course  Semyonov  took  Durward's 
bed.  There  was  nowhere  else  for  him  to  go.  I  don't  know 
what  he  thought  about  it.  Of  course  he  said  nothing.  He 
talked  a  little  about  ordinary  things  and  I  answered  stu- 
pidly as  I  always  do  with  him.  I  hated  the  solemn  way 
he  undressed.  He  was  a  long  tifae  cleaning  his  teeth, 
making  noises  in  his  mouth  as  though  he  were  laughing  at 
me.  Then  he  sat  on  his  bed,  naked  except  for  his  shirt, 
combing  his  moustache  and  beard  very  carefully  with  a 
pocket-comb.  He  was  so  thick  and  solid  and  scornful,  not 
looking  at  me  exactly,  just  staring  in  front  of  him.  There 
was  no  sound  except  his  comb  scraping  through  his  beard. 
The  room  was  so  small  and  he  seemed  absolutely  to  fill  it, 
so  that  I  felt  really  flattened  against  the  wall.     It  was  as 


FOUE?  275 

though  he  were  showing  me  deliberately  how  much  finer  a 
man  he  was  than  I,  how  much  stronger  his  body,  that  he 
could  do  anything  with  me  if  he  liked.  He  asked  me,  very 
politely,  whether  I'd  mind  blowing  out  the  candle  and  I 
did  it  at  once.  He  watched  me  as  I  walked  across  the  floor 
and  I  felt  ashamed  of  my  thinness  and  my  ugliness  and  / 
Jcnow  that  he  knew  that  I  was  ashamed.  After  the  light  was 
blown  out  I  heard  him  settle  into  his  bed  with  a  great  heavy 
plop.  I  couldn't  sleep  for  a  long  time,  and  at  every  move- 
ment that  he  made  I  felt  as  though  he  were  laughing  at  me. 
And  yet  with  all  this  I  had  also  the  strangest  impulse  to 
get  up,  there  in  the  dark,  to  walk  across  the  room,  to  put 
my  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  to  ask  him  about  her.  What 
would  he  do  ?  He'd  refuse  to  speak,  I  suppose.  I  should 
only  get  insulted — and  yet.  .  .  .  He  must  be  thinking  of 
her — all  the  time  just  as  I  am.  He  must  want  to  talk  of 
her  and  I  know  her  better  than  any  one  else  did.  And  per- 
haps if  I  once  broke  down  his  pride  .  .  .  and  yet  every 
time  that  his  body  moved  and  the  bed  creaked  I  felt  that  I 
hated  him,  that  I  never  wanted  to  speak  to  him  again, 
that.  .  .  .  Oh !  but  I'm  ashamed  of  myself.  He  is  right  to 
despise  me.  .  .  . 

Saturday,  July  Slst.  It  is  just  midnight.  I  am  on  duty 
to-night.  Everything  is  quiet  and  there  are  not  likely  I  think 
to  be  any  more  wounded  until  the  morning.  I  am  sitting  in 
the  room  where  they  brought  Marie.  It's  strange  to  think 
of  that,  and  when  you're  sitting  with  a  candle  in  a  dark 
room  you  can  imagine  anything.  It's  odd  in  this  affair 
how  little  things  affect  one.  There's  a  book  here,  a  "Report 
on  New  Mexico."  I  looked  at  it  idly  the  other  day  and 
now  I'm  for  ever  picking  it  up.  It  always  opens  at  the 
same  page  and  I  find  myself  thinking,  speculating  about  it 
in  a  ridiculous  manner.     I  shall  throw  the  thing  away  to- 


276  THE  DARK  FOEEST 

morrow,  but  I  know  the  page  by  heart  anyway.  It's  an 
account  of  the  work  of  some  school  or  other.  Here  are  a 
few  of  the  lectures  that  were  given: 

Mr.  Fred.  A.  Bush.  What  the  Community  owes  the 
l^ewspaper  and  what  the  Newspaper  owes  the  Community. 
—Rev.  I.  R.  Glass.  Fools.— Hon.  W.  T.  Cessna.  Don't 
Pay  too  dearly  for  the  Whistle. — Prof.  Wellington  Put- 
man.  Rip  van  Winkle. — Rev.  R.  S.  Hanshaw.  The 
Mind's  Picture  Gallery. 

Then  they  acted  Othello — The  "Normal  Students,"  who- 
ever they  may  be.  Othello,  E.  F.  Dunlavey.  lago — Doug- 
las Giffard.  Desdemona — Carrie  Whitehill.  Emilia — 
Gussie  Rodgers.  .  .  .  Afterwards  I  see  that  Miss  Gussie 
Rodgers  gave  a  lecture  on  the  Anglo-Saxon  in  Literature. 
She  must  have  been  a  clever  young  woman.  Then  I  see  that 
they  decorated  one  of  their  rooms  with  "a  large  number 
of  carbon  prints  of  celebrated  paintings,"  "the  class  picture 
being  the  most  important  and  costing  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  $100 — this  is  the  hunting  scene  of  Ruysdael.  .  .  ."  Also 
they  added  to  their  Museum  "manufactured  articles  from 
abroad  illustrative  of  the  habits  and  customs  of  foreigners." 

Now  isn't  that  all  incredible  after  the  day  that  I've  had  ? 
Where  do  the  things  join  ?  What's  all  that  got  to  do  with 
the  horrors  I've  been  through  to-day,  with  the  Forest,  the 
cholera,  Marie,  Semyonov.  .  .  .  With  all  that's  happening 
in  Europe  ?  With  this  mad  earthquake  of  a  catastrophe  ? 
And  yet  one  thinks  of  such  silly  things.  I  can  see  them 
doing  Othello  with  their  cheap  ermine,  bad  jewellery  and 
impossible  wigs.  I  expect  Othello's  black  came  off  as  he  got 
hotter  and  hotter ;  and  the  Rev.  I.  R.  Glass  on  "Fools"  .  .  . 
There'd  be  all  the  cheap  morality — "It's  better,  my  young 
friends,  to  be  good  than  to  be  bad.  It  pays  better  in  the 
end" — and  there'd  be  little  stories,  sentimental  some  of  them 


FOUR?  277 

and  humorous  some  of  them.  There'd  be  a  general  titter  of 
laughter  at  the  humorous  ones.  .  .  .  And  the  carbon 
prints,  the  "Ruysdael"  always  pointed  out  to  visitors  .  .  . 
and  after  the  war  it  will  all  be  going  on  again.  At  Pol- 
chester,  too,  they'll  be  having  cheap  lectures  in  the  Town- 
Hall  and  Shakespeare  Readings  and  High-School  Prize- 
givings.  .  .  .  Where's  the  Connexion  between  That  and 
This?  Where's  the  permanent  thing  in  us  that  goes  on 
whatever  life  may  do  to  us  ?  Is  life  still  beautiful  and  no- 
ble in  spite  of  whatever  man  may  do  with  it,  or  is  Semyonov 
right  and  there  is  no  meaning  in  ray  love  for  Marie,  noth- 
ing real  and  true  except  the  things  we  see  with  our  eyes, 
hear  with  our  ears?  Is  Semyonov  right,  or  are  Nikitin, 
Audrey  Vassilievitch  and  I?  .  .  .  And  now  let  me  stick 
to  facts.  I  left  this  morning  about  six  with  twenty  wagons 
to  fetch  wounded.  Such  a  wonderful  summer  morning — 
the  Forest  quite  incredibly  beautiful,  birds  singing  in  thou- 
sands, and  that  strange  little  stream  that  runs  near  our 
house  and  can  look  so  abominable  when  it  pleases,  was 
trembling  and  lovely  as  though  it  didn't  know  what  evil 
was.  We  got  to  the  first  Red  Cross  place  about  eight.  Here 
was  Krylov.  What  a  good  fellow!  Always  cheerful,  al- 
ways kindhearted,  nothing  can  dismay  him.  A  Russian 
type  that's  common  enough  in  spite  of  all  the  "profound 
pessimism  of  the  Russian  heart"  that  we're  always  hearing 
of.  There  he  was  anyway,  working  like  a  butcher  before 
a  feast-day.  Dirty  looking  bam  they  were  working  in  and 
it  smelt  like  hell.  Cannon  pretty  close  too.  They  say  the 
Austrians  are  fearfully  strong  just  here  and  of  course 
our  ammunition  is  climbing  down  to  less  than  nothing — 
looks  as  though  we  were  going  to  have  a  hot  time  soon.  I 
turned  in  and  helped  Krylov  all  the  morning  and  some- 
how his  fat,  ugly  face,  his  little  exclamations,  his  explosive 


278  THE  DARK  FOREST 

comical  rages,  his  sudden  rough  kindnesses  did  one  a  world 
of  good.  We  filled  the  wagons  and  sent  them  back,  then 
about  midday,  under  a  blazing  hot  sun,  we  went  on  with 
the  others.  Is  there  any  place  in  the  globe  hot  and  suffo- 
cating quite  as  this  Forest  is  ?  Even  in  the  open  spaces  one 
can't  breathe  and  there's  never  any  proper  shade  under  the 
trees.  At  first  we  were  at  a  loss.  No  one  seemed  quite  to 
know  where  the  Vengrovsky  Polk  were.  I  had  to  go  on 
alone  and  reconnoitre.  I  was  right  out  in  the  open  then 
and  more  alone  than  one  could  believe.  Cannon  were  blaz- 
ing away  and  one  battery  seemed  just  behind  me — and  yet 
I  couldn't  see  it.  I  could  see  nothing — only  great  ridges 
of  hills  with  the  Forest  like  gigantic  torrents  of  green 
water  under  the  mist,  and  just  at  my  feet  cornfields  thick 
with  cornflowers.  Then  I  saw  rather  a  wonderful  thing. 
I  came  to  the  edge  of  my  hill  and  looked  down  into  a  cup 
of  a  valley,  quite  a  little  valley  with  the  green  waves  tow- 
ering on  every  side  of  it.  Through  the  mist  there  shim- 
mered below  me  a  blue  lake.  I  was  puzzled — ^there  was  no 
water  here  that  I  knew,  but  by  this  time  the  Forest  has  so 
bewitched  my  senses  that  I'm  ready  to  believe  anything  of 
it.  There  it  was,  anyway,  a  blue  lake,  shifting  a  little  un- 
der gold  haze.  I  climbed  down  the  hill  a  yard  or  two  and 
then  you  can  believe  that  I  jumped!  My  blue  lake  was 
Austrian  prisoners,  nothing  more  nor  less!  Has  any  one 
quite  seen  them  like  that  before,  I  wonder,  and  isn't  this 
Forest  really  the  old  witch's  forest,  able  to  do  what  it  pleases 
with  anything  ?  There  they  were,  hundreds  of  them,  cover- 
ing the  whole  floor  of  the  little  valley.  I  walked  down  into 
the  middle  of  them,  found  an  officer,  asked  him  about 
wounded,  and  got  directed  some  two  versts  in  front  of  me. 
Then  I  climbed  up  the  hill  back  to  my  wagons  and  we 
started  off.    We  went  down  the  hill  round  by  the  road  and 


FOUK?  279 

came  to  the  prisoners,  crossed  a  stream  and  plunged  into  a 
shining  dazzling  nightmare.  Where  the  cannon  were  I 
don't  know — all  a  considerable  distance  away,  I  suppose, 
because  the  only  sign  of  shell  were  the  little  breaking  puffs 
of  smoke  in  the  blue  sky  with  just  a  pin-flash  of  light  as 
they  broke;  but  really  amongst  that  welter  of  wooded  hill 
the  sounds  were  uncanny.  They'd  be  under  one's  feet, 
over  one's  head,  in  one's  ear,  up  against  one's  stomach, 
straight  in  the  small  of  one's  back.  Since  my  night  with 
Nikitin  physical  fear  really  seems  to  have  left  me — ^the 
whole  outward  paraphernalia  of  the  war  has  become  an  en- 
tirely commonplace  thing,  but  it  \yas  the  Forest  that  I  felt 
— exactly  as  though  it  were  playing  with  me.  Wasn't  there 
an  old  mediaeval  torture  when  they  shot  arrows  at  their 
victim,  always  just  missing  him,  first  on  one  side,  then  on 
another,  until  at  last,  tired  of  the  game,  they  fixed  him 
through  the  head  ?  Well,  that's  what  the  old  beast  was  try- 
ing to  do  to  me,  anything  to  doubt  what's  real  and  what  is 
not,  anything  to  make  me  question  my  senses.  .  .  .  We 
tumbled  quite  suddenly  on  to  some  men,  a  small  Red  Cross 
shelter  and  two  or  three  hundred  soldiers  sitting  under  the 
trees  by  the  road  resting — most  of  them  sleeping.  The  doc- 
tor in  the  Red  Cross  place — a  small  fussy  man — ^was  ill- 
tempered  and  overworked.  There  were  at  least  thirty  dead 
men  lying  in  a  row  outside  the  shelter,  and  the  army  sani- 
tars  were  bringing  in  more  wounded  every  minute.  "Why 
weren't  there  more  wagons  ?  What  was  the  use  of  coming 
with  so  few?  Where  was  the  other  doctor,  some  one  or 
other  who  ought  to  have  relieved  him?"  There  he  was, 
like  a  little  monkey  on  wires,  dancing  up  and  down  in  the 
blazing  road,  his  arms  covered  with  blood,  pincers  in  one 
hand  and  bandages  in  the  other  and  the  inside  of  his  shelter 
with  such  a  green,  filthy  smell  coming  out  of  it  that  you'd 


280  THE  DARK  FOREST 

think  the  roof  would  burst !  I  filled  seven  of  my  wagons, 
sent  them  back  and  went  forward  with  the  remaining  three. 
We  were  climbing  now,  up  through  the  Forest  road,  the 
shell,  very  close,  making  a  terrific  noise,  and  in  between  the 
«cream  of  the  shell  the  birds  singing  like  anything ! 

The  road  turned  the  comer  and  then  we  were  in  the 
middle  of  it !  Now  here's  the  worst  thing  I've  seen  with  my 
eyes  since  I  came  to  the  war — worst  thing  I  shall  ever  see 
perhaps.  One  looks  back,  you  know,  to  one  of  those  old  av- 
erage afternoons  at  Polchester,  my  father  coming  back  from 
golf,  I  myself  going  into  the  old  red- walled  garden  for  tea, 
with  some  novel  under  my  arm,  the  cathedral  bell  ringing 
for  Evensong  just  over  the  wall  across  the  Green,  then 
slowly  dropping  to  its  close,  then  the  faint  murmur  of  the 
organ.  Some  bird  twittering  in  a  tree  overhead,  buttered 
toast  in  a  neat  pile  placed  carefully  over  hot  water  to  keep 
it  warm;  honey,  heavy  home-made  cake,  perhaps  the  local 
weekly  paper  with  the  "Do  you  know  that  .  .  ."  column 
demanding  one's  critical  attention.  One's  annoyed  because 
to-morrow  some  tiresome  fellow's  coming  to  luncheon,  be- 
cause one  wishes  to  buy  some  china  that  one  can't  afford, 
because  the  wife  of  the  Precentor  said  to  the  Dean's  sister 
that  young  Trenchard  would  be  an  old  man  in  a  year  or 
two.  .  .  .  One  sips  one's  tea,  the  organ  leads  the  chants, 
the  sun  sinks  below  the  wall.  .  .  .  That!  This!  .  .  . 
there's  the  Forest  road  hot  like  red-hot  iron  under  the  sun ; 
it  winds  away  into  the  Forest,  but  so  far  as  the  eye  can  see 
it  is  covered  with  things  that  have  been  left  by  flying  men 
— stich  articles !  Swords,  daggers,  rifles,  cartridge-cases,  of 
course,  but  also  books,  letters,  a  hair-brush,  underclothes, 
newspapers,  these  things  in  thick,  tangled  profusion,  rifles 
in  heaps,  cartridge-cases  by  the  hundred!  Under  the  sun 
up  and  down  the  road  there  are  dead  and  dying,  Russians 


rOUK?  281 

and  Austrians  together.  The  Forest  is  both  above  and 
below  the  road  and  from  out  of  it  there  comes  a  continual 
screaming.  There  is  every  note  in  this  babel  of  voices,  mad 
notes,  plaintive  notes,  angry  notes,  whimpering  notes.  One 
wounded  man  is  very  slowly  trying  to  drag  himself  across 
the  road,  and  his  foot  which  is  nearly  severed  from  his  leg 
waggles  behind  him.  One  path  that  leads  from  the  road 
to  the  Forest  is  piled  with  bodies  and  is  a  stream  of  blood. 
Some  of  the  dead  are  lying  very  quietly  in  the  ditch,  their 
heads  pillowed  on  their  arms — every  now  and  then  some- 
thing that  you  had  thought  dead  stirs.  .  .  .  And  the  scream- 
ing from  the  Forest  is  incessant  so  that  you  simply  don't 
hear  the  shell  (now  very  close  indeed).  .  .  . 

There  is^  you  know,  that  world  somewhere  with  the  Rev. 
Someone  lecturing  on  Fools  and  "the  class  'Ruysdael'  cost- 
ing in  the  neighbourhood  of  $100."  At  least,  it's  very 
important  if  I'm  to  continue  to  keep  my  head  steady  that 
I  should  know  that  it  is  there ! 

It  seemed  that  we  were  the  first  Red  Cross  people  to  ar- 
rive. Oh!  what  rewards  would  I  have  offered  for  another 
ten  wagons!  How  lamentably  insuflScient  our  three  carts 
appeared  standing  there  in  the  road  with  this  screaming 
Forest  on  every  side  of  one!  As  I  waited  there,  over- 
whelmed by  the  blind  indifference  of  the  place,  listening 
still  to  the  incredible  birds,  seeing  in  the  businesslike  atten- 
tions of  my  sanitars  only  a  further  incredible  indifference, 
a  great  stream  of  soldiers  came  up  the  road,  passing  into 
the  first  line  of  trenches,  only  a  little  deeper  in  the  Forest. 
They  were  very  hot,  the  perspiration  dripping  down  their 
faces,  but  they  went  through  to  the  position  without  a  glance 
at  the  dead  and  wounded.  No  concern  of  theirs — that.  Life 
had  changed;  they  had  changed  with  it.  .  .  .  Meanwhile 
they  did  as  they  were  told.  .  .  . 


282  THE  DAKK  FOEEST 

We  worked  there,  filling  our  wagons.  The  selection  was 
a  horrible  difficulty.  All  the  wounded  were  Austrians  and 
how  thej  begged  not  to  be  left !  It  would  be  many  hours, 
perhaps,  before  the  next  Red  Cross  Division  would  appear. 
An  awful  business!  One  man  dying  in  the  wood  tore  at 
his  stomach  with  an  unceasing  gesture  and  the  air  came 
through  his  mouth  like  gas  screaming  through  an  "escape" 
hole.  One  Austrian,  quite  an  old  man,  died  in  my  arms  in 
the  middle  of  the  road.  He  was  not  conscious,  but  he  fum- 
bled for  his  prayer-book,  which  he  gave  me,  muttering 
something.  His  name  "Schneidher  Gyorgy  Pelmonoster" 
was  written  on  the  first  page. 

We  started  for  home  at  length.  Our  drive  back  was  ter- 
rible. I  find  that  I  cannot  linger  any  longer  over  this  af- 
fair. Our  carts  drove  over  rough  stones  and  ruts  and  we 
were  four  hours  on  the  journey.  Our  wounded  screamed 
all  the  way — one  man  died.  .  .  .  My  candle  is  nearly  out. 
I  must  find  another.  In  one  of  its  frantic  leaps  just  now  I 
fancied  that  I  saw  Marie  standing  near  the  door.  She 
looked  just  as  she  always  did,  very  kind  though  smiling. 
...  Of  course  it  was  only  the  candle.  I  must  be  careful 
not  to  encourage  these  fancies.  But  God !  how  lonely  I  am 
to-night !  I  realise,  I  suppose,  that  there  isn't  one  single 
living  soul  in  the  world  who  cares  whether  I  die  to-night  or 
not — not  one.  Durward  will  remember  me,  perhaps.  !N^o 
one  else.  And  Marie  would  have  cared.  Yes,  even  married 
to  Semyonov  she  would  have  cared — and  remembered.  And 
I  could  always  have  cared  for  her,  been  her  friend,  as  she 
asked  me.  I'm  pretty  low  to-night.  If  I  could  sleep.  .  .  . 
Boof !  .  .  .  There  goes  the  candle ! 

Wednesday,  August  J^th.  ...  I  am  growing  accustomed, 
I  suppose,  to  Semyonov's  company.  After  all,  his  contempt 
for  me  is  an  old  thing,  dating  from  the  very  first  moment 


FOUK?  283 

that  he  ever  saw  me.  It  has  become  now  a  commonplace  to 
both  of  us.  He  is  very  silent  now  compared  with  the  old 
days.  There  has  been  much  work  yesterday  and  to-day, 
but  still  last  night  I  could  not  sleep.  I  think  that  he  also 
did  not  sleep  and  we  both  lay  there  in  the  dark,  thinking, 
I  suppose,  of  the  same  thing.  I  thought  even  of  myself,  my 
sense  of  humour  has  never  been  very  strong,  but  I  can  at 
any  rate  see  that  I  am  no  very  fine  figure  in  life,  and  that 
whether  such  a  man  as  I  live  or  die  can  be  of  no  great 
importance  to  any  one  or  anything,  but  I  do  most  truly 
desire  not  to  make  more  of  the  matter  than  is  just.  A  man 
may  have  felt  himself  the  most  insignificant  and  useless 
of  human  creatures  all  his  days,  but  face  him  with  death 
and  he  becomes,  by  very  force  of  the  contrast,  something  of 
a  figure. 

Here  am  I,  deprived  of  the  only  thing  in  life  that  gave 
me  joy  or  pride.  I  should,  after  that  deprivation,  have 
slipped  back,  I  suppose,  to  my  old  life  of  hopeless  uninterest 
and  insignificance,  but  now  here  the  death  of  Marie  Iva~ 
novna  has  been  no  check  at  all.  I  half  believe  now  that 
one  can  do  with  life  or  death  what  one  will.  If  I  had  known 
that  from  the  beginning  what  things  I  might  have  found! 
As  it  is,  I  must  simply  make  the  best  of  it.  Semyonov's  con- 
tempt would  once  have  frightened  the  very  life  out  of  me, 
but  after  that  night  of  his  arrival  here  it  has  been  nothing 
compared  with  the  excitement  of  our  relationship — ^the 
things  that  are  keeping  us  together  in  spite  of  ourselves  and 
the  strange  changes,  I  do  believe,  that  this  situation  here  is 
making  in  him.  The  loss  of  Marie  Ivanovna  would  two 
months  ago  perhaps  have  finished  me.  What  is  it  now  be- 
side the  wonder  as  to  whether  I  have  lost  her  after  all,  the 
consciousness  of  pursuit,  the  longing  to  know?  .  .  . 

Durward  and  I  have  spoken  sometimes  of  my  dream  of 


284  THE  DAEK  FOKEST 

the  Forest.  It  must  seem  to  him  now,  as  to  myself, 
strangely  fulfilled;  but  I  believe  that  if  I  catch  the  beast 
it  will  only  be  to  discover  that  there  is  a  further  quest  be- 
yond, and  then  another  maybe  beyond  that.  .  .  . 

At  the  same  time  there's  the  practical  question  of  one's 
nerve.  If  this  strain  of  work  continues,  if  the  hot  weather 
lasts,  and  if  I  don't  sleep,  I  shall  have  to  take  care.  Three 
times  during  the  last  three  days  I  have  fancied  that  I  have 
seen  Marie  Ivanovna,  once  in  broad  daylight  in  the  Forest, 
once  sitting  on  the  sofa  in  our  room,  once  at  night  near  my 
bed.  Of  course  this  is  the  merest  illusion,  but  I  have  hours 
now  when  I  am  not  quite  sure  of  things.  Audrey  Vassilie- 
vitch  told  me  something  of  the  same  to-day — that  he  thought 
that  he  saw  his  wife  and  that  Nikitin  told  him  the  same 
yesterday.  The  flies  also  are  confusing  and  there's  a  hot 
dry  smell  that's  disagreeable  and  prevents  one  from  eat- 
ing. I  know  that  I  must  keep  a  clear  head  on  these  things. 
If  only  one  could  get  away  for  an  hour  or  two,  right  outside 
— ^but  one  is  shut  up  in  this  Forest  as  though  it  were  a  green 
oven.  ...  I  ought  to  be  sleeping  now  instead  of  writing 
all  this.  ...  I  must  say  that  I  had  a  curious  illusion  ten 
minutes  ago  while  I  was  writing  this,  that  one  of  the 
wounded,  in  a  bed  near  the  door  which  is  open,  began  to 
slip,  bed  and  all,  across  the  floor  towards  me.  He  did  in- 
deed come  closer  and  closer  to  me,  the  bed  moving  in  jerks 
as  though  it  were  pushed.  This  was,  of  course,  simply  be- 
cause my  eyes  were  tired.  When  I  try  to  sleep  they  are  hot 
and  smarting.  .  .  . 

I  interrupt  Trenchard's  diary  to  give  a  very  brief  account 
of  the  impression  that  was  made  on  me  by  my  visit  to  the 
three  of  them  with  some  wagons  four  days  after  the  date  of 
the  above  entry.  It  must  be  remembered  that  I  had  not, 
of  course,  at  this  time  read  any  of  Trenchard's  diary,  nor 


FOUK?  286 

had  I  seen  anything  of  him  since  the  moment  of  Semyonov's 
arrival.  My  chief  impression  during  the  interval  had  been 
my  memory  of  Trenchard  as  I  had  last  seen  him,  miserable, 
white-faced,  unnerved.  I  had  thought  about  him  a  good 
deal.  Those  days  at  the  Otriad  had  been  for  the  rest  of  us 
rather  pleasantly  tranquil.  There  was  no  question  that  we 
were  relieved  by  the  absence  of  Semyonov  and  Trenchard. 
Semyonov  was  no  easy  companion  at  any  time  and  we  had 
the  very  natural  desire  to  throw  off  from  us  the  weight  of 
Marie  Ivanovna's  unexpected  death.  I  will  not  speak  of 
myself  in  this  matter,  but  for  the  others.  She  had  not  been 
very  long  in  their  company,  she  had  been  strange  and  un- 
settled in  her  behaviour,  she  had  been  engaged  to  a  man, 
jilted  him,  and  engaged  herself  to  another — all  within  a 
very  short  period  of  time.  I,  myself,  was  occupied  inces- 
santly by  my  thoughts  of  her,  but  that  was  my  own  affair. 
The  past  week  then  with  us  had  been  tranquil  and  easy.  On 
my  arrival  at  the  "Point"  in  the  Forest  I  was  met  at  once 
by  a  new  atmosphere.  For  one  thing  the  war  here  was 
on  the  very  top  of  us.  Only  a  few  yards  away,  towards 
the  end  of  the  garden,  they  were  digging  trenches.  Some- 
where beyond  the  windows,  in  the  Forest,  a  battery  had  es- 
tablished itself  near  a  clearing  at  the  edge  of  a  hill,  the 
guns  disguised  with  leaves  and  branches.  Soldiers  were 
moving  incessantly  to  and  fro.  The  house  seemed  full  of 
wounded,  wagons  coming  and  going.  They  were  digging 
graves  in  the  garden,  and  sheeted  bodies  were  lying  in  the 
orchard. 

My  friends  greeted  me,  seemed  glad  to  see  me  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  pursued  their  business.  I  was  entirely  out- 
side their  life.  Only  ten  days  before  I  had  felt  a  closer 
intimacy  with  Trenchard,  Audrey  Vassilievitch  and  Niki- 
tin  than  I  had  ever  had  with  any  of  them.    Now  I  simply 


286  THE  DARK  FOREST 

did  not  exist  for  them.  It  was  not  the  work  that  excluded 
me.  The  evening  that  passed  then  was  an  easy  evening — 
very  little  to  do.  We  spent  most  of  the  night  in  playing 
chemin-de-fer.  No,  it  was  not  the  work.  It  was  quite 
simply  that  something  was  happening  to  all  of  them  in 
which  I  had  no  concern.  They  were  all  changed  and  about 
them  all — ^yes,  even,  I  believe,  about  Semyonov — there  was 
an  air  of  suppressed  excitement,  rather  the  excitement  that 
schoolboys  have,  when  they  have  prepared  some  secret  for- 
bidden defiance  or  adventure.  Trenchard,  whom  I  had  left 
in  the  depths  of  a  lethargic  depression,  was  most  curiously 
preoccupied.  He  looked  at  me  first  as  though  he  did  not 
perfectly  remember  me.  He,  assuredly,  was  not  well.  His 
eyes  were  lined  heavily,  his  white  cheeks  had  a  flush  of  red 
that  burnt  there  feverishly,  and  he  seemed  extraordinarily 
thin.  He  was  restless,  his  eyes  were  never  still,  and  I  saw 
him  sometimes  fix  them,  in  a  strange  way,  upon  some  ob- 
ject as  though  he  would  assure  himself  that  it  was  there. 
He  was  obviously  under  the  influence  of  some  deep  excite- 
ment. He  told  me  that  he  was  sleeping  badly,  that  his  head 
ached,  and  that  his  eyes  hurt  him,  but  he  did  not  seem  dis- 
tressed by  these  things.  He  was  too  strongly  absorbed  by 
something  to  be  depressed.  He  treated  me  and  everything 
around  him  with  impatience,  as  though  he  could  not  wait 
for  something  that  he  was  expecting. 

I  have  seen  in  this  business  of  the  war  strange  things  that 
nerves  can  do  with  the  human  mind  and  body.  I  have 
seen  many  men  who  remain  with  their  nerves  as  strong  as 
steel  from  the  first  to. the  last,  but  this  is,  I  should  say,  the 
exception  and  only  to  be  found  with  men  of  a  very  unim- 
aginative character.  As  regards  Trenchard  one  must  take 
into  account  his  recent  loss,  the  sudden  stress  of  incessant 
exhausting  work,  the  flaming  weather  and  the  constant  com- 


FOUR  ?  287 

panionship  of  the  one  human  being  of  all  others  most  cal- 
culated to  disturb  his  tranquillity.  But  in  varying  degrees 
I  think  that  every  one  in  this  place  was  at  this  time  work- 
ing under  a  strain  of  something  abnormal  and  uncalculated. 
The  very  knowledge  that  the  attack  was  now  being  pressed 
severely  and  that  we  had  so  little  ammunition  with  which 
to  reply,  was  enough  to  strain  the  nerves  of  every  one. 
Trenchard  told  me,  in  the  course  of  the  conversation,  that 
I  had  with  him  during  my  second  day's  stay,  that  his  visit 
to  the  lines  some  days  earlier  (this  is  the  visit  of  which 
he  speaks  in  his  diary)  had  greatly  upset  him.  He  had 
been  disturbed  apparently  by  the  fact  that  there  were  not 
sufficient  wagons.  The  whole  sense  of  the  Forest,  he  told 
me,  was  a  strain  to  him,  the  feeling  that  he  could  not  es- 
cape from  it,  the  thought  of  its  colour  and  heat  and  at  the 
same  time  its  ugliness  and  horror,  the  cholera  scarecrow  in 
it,  and  the  deserted  town  and  all  the  horrors  of  the  recent 
attacks.  The  dead  Austrians  and  Russians.  .  .  .  But  I  re- 
peat, most  emphatically,  that  he  was  not  depressed  by  this. 
It  was  rather  that  he  wished  to  keep  his  energies  fresh  and 
clear  for  some  purpose  of  his  own,  and  was  therefore  dis- 
turbed by  anything  that  threatened  his  health.  He  was 
not  quite  well,  he  told  me — ^headaches,  not  sleeping — ^but 
that  "he  had  it  well  in  control." 

And  here  now  is  a  strange  thing.  One  of  the  chief  pur- 
poses of  my  visit  had  been  to  persuade  one  of  the  four  men 
to  return  with  me  to  the  Otriad.  Molozov  had  asserted 
very  emphatically  that  none  of  them  should  be  compelled 
against  their  will  to  return  to  Mittovo,  but  he  thought  that 
it  would  be  well  if,  considering  the  strain  of  the  work  and 
the  Position,  they  were  to  take  it  in  turns  to  have  a  day 
or  two's  rest  and  so  relieve  one  another.  I  had  had  no 
cDubt  that  this  would  be  very  acceptable  to  them,  but  on  my 


288  THE  DAKK  FOKEST 

proposing  it,  was  surprised  to  receive  from  each  of  them 
individually  an  abrupt  refusal  even  to  consider  the  matter. 
At  the  same  time  they  assured  me,  severally,  that  the  one 
or  the  other  of  them  needed,  very  badly,  a  rest.  After  I  had 
spoken,  Nikitin,  taking  me  aside,  told  me  that  he  thought 
that  Audrey  Vassilievitch  would  be  better  at  Mittovo.  "He 
is  a  little  in  the  way  here,"  he  said.  "Certainly  he  does 
his  best,  but  this  is  not  his  place."  Nikitin  wore  the  same 
preoccupied  air  as  the  others. — "Whatever  you  do,"  he  said, 
"don't  let  Audrey  know  that  I  spoke  to  you."  Audrey  Vas- 
silievitch, on  his  side  with  much  nervousness  and  self-im- 
portance, told  me  that  he  thought  that  Nikitin  was  suffering 
from  overwork  and  needed  a  complete  rest.  "You  know, 
Ivan  Andreievitch,  he  is  really  not  at  all  well;  I  sleep  in 
the  same  room.  He  talks  in  his  sleep,  fancies  that  he  sees 
things  .  .  .  very  odd — although  this  hot  weather  ...  I 
myself  for  the  matter  of  that  .  .  ."  and  then  he  nervously 
broke  off. 

But  with  all  this  they  did  not  seem  to  quarrel  with  one 
another.  It  is  true  that  I  discovered  a  kind  of  impatience, 
especially  between  Audrey  Vassilievitch  and  Nikitin,  the 
kind  of  restlessness  that  you  see  sometimes  between  two 
horses  which  are  harnessed  together.  Semyonov  (he  paid  no 
attention  to  me  at  all  during  my  visit)  treated  Trenchard 
quite  decently,  and  I  observed  on  several  occasions  his  look 
of  puzzled  curiosity  at  the  man — a  look  to  which  I  have 
alluded  before.  He  spoke  to  him  always  in  the  tone  of 
contemptuous  banter  that  he  had  from  the  beginning  used 
to  him:  "Well,  Mr.,  I  suppose  that  you  couldn't  bring  a 
big  enough  bandage  however  much  you  were  asked  to.  But 
why  choose  the  smallest  possible.  .  .  ." 

Or,  "That's  where  Mr.  writes  his  poetry — ^being  a  nic^ 
romantic  Englishman.     Isn't  it,  Mr.  ?" 


EOUR?  289 

But  I  was  greatly  struck  by  Trenchard's  manner  of  tak- 
ing these  remarks.  He  behaved  now  as  though  he  had  se- 
cret reasons  for  knowing  that  he  was  in  every  way  as  good 
a  man  as  Semyonov — a  better  one,  maybe.  He  laughed, 
or  sometimes  simply  looked  at  his  companion,  or  he  would 
reply  in  his  bad  halting  Russian  with  some  jest  at  Sem- 
yonov's  expense. 

Finally,  to  end  this  business,  if  ever  a  man  were  af- 
fected to  the  heart  by  the  loss  of  a  friend  or  a  lover,  Sem- 
yonov was  that  man.  He  was  a  man  too  strong  in  himself 
and  too  contemptuous  of  weakness  to  show  to  all  the  world 
his  hurt.  I  myself  might  have  seen  nothing  had  I  not  al- 
ways before  me  the  memory  of  that  vision  of  his  face  be- 
tween the  trees.    But  from  that  I  had  proceeded — 

It  was,  I  suppose,  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  the  ful- 
filment of  his  desire  had  been  denied  him.  Had  Marie  Iva- 
novna  lived,  and  had  he  attained  with  her  his  complete 
satisfaction,  he  would  have  tired  of  her  perhaps  as  he  had 
tired  of  many  others,  and  have  remained  only  the  stronger 
cynic.  But  she  had  eluded  him,  eluded  him  at  the  very  mo- 
ment of  her  freshness  and  happiness  and  triumph.  What 
defeat  to  his  proud  spirit  was  working  now  in  him  ?  What 
longing?  What  fierce  determination  to  secure  even  now 
his  ends?  The  change  that  I  fancied  in  him  was  perhaps 
no  more  than  his  bracing  of  his  strength  and  courage  to 
face  new  conditions.  Death  had  robbed  him  of  his  posses- 
sion— so  much  the  worse  then  for  Death ! 

Upon  this  day  of  icy  cold,  as  I  write  these  words,  I  am 
afraid  that  my  account  may  be  taken  as  an  extravagant  and 
unjustified  conceit.  But  that  I  do  most  honestly  believe  it 
not  to  be.  I  myself  felt,  during  my  two  days'  stay  in  that 
place,  the  strangest  contact  with  new  experiences,  new  de- 
velopmeuts,  new  relationships.    Normal  life  had  been  left 


290  THE  DARK  FOREST 

utterly  behind  and  there  was  nothing  to  remind  one  of  it 
save  perhaps  that  "Report  on  New  Mexico"  still  there  on 
the  dusty  table.  But  there  was  the  heat;  there  were  the 
wheeling,  circling  clouds  of  flies,  now  in  lines,  now  in 
squares,  now  broken  like  smoke,  now  dim  like  vapour ;  there 
was  that  old  familiar  smell  of  dust  and  flesh,  chemicals  and 
blood;  there  were  the  men  dying  and  broken,  fighting  like 
giants,  defeating  fears  and  terrors  that  hung  like  grey  shad- 
ows about  the  doors  and  windows  of  the  house.  .  .  .  Every 
incident  and  experience  that  we  had  had  at  the  war,  every 
incident  and  experience  that  I  have  related  in  these  pages, 
seemed  to  be  gathered  into  this  house.  ...  As  I  look  back 
upon  it  now  it  seems,  without  any  extravagance  at  all,  the 
very  heart  of  the  fortress  of  the  enemy.  I  do  not  mean  in 
the  least  that  life  was  solemn  or  pretentious  or  heavy.  It 
was  careless,  casual,  as  liable  to  the  ridiculous  intervention 
of  unimportant  things  as  ever  it  had  been;  but  it  was  life 
pressed  so  close  to  the  fine  presence  of  Fate  that  you  could 
hear  the  very  beating  of  his  heart.  And  in  this  Fortress 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I,  who  was  watching,  outside  the  lives 
of  these  others,  an  observer  only  whom,  perhaps,  this  same 
Fate  despised,  asked  of  God  a  sign.  I  saw  suddenly  here 
the  connexion,  for  which  I  had  been  waiting,  between  the 
four  men:  There  they  were,  Nikitin  and  Audrey,  Sem- 
yonov  and  Trenchard — Two  Wise  Men  and  Two  Fools — 
surely  the  rivalry  was  ludicrous  in  its  inequality  .  .  .  and 
yet  God  does  not  judge  as  men  do.  Nikitin  and  Semyonov 
or  Audrey  and  Trenchard  ?  Who  would  be  taken  and  who 
left  ?  I  recalled  Semyonov's  jesting  words :  "Even  though 
it's  the  wise  men  succeed  in  this  world  I  don't  doubt  it's 
the  fools  have  their  way  in  the  next." 

I  waited  for  my  Sign.  .  .  . 

Last  of  all  I  can  hear  it  objected  that  every  one  was 


rOUK?  291 

surely  too  busy  to  attend  to  relationships  or  shades  of  re- 
lationships. But  it  was  this  very  thing  that  contributed  to 
the  situation,  namely,  that,  in  the  very  stress  of  the  work, 
there  were  hours,  many  hours,  when  there  was  simply  noth- 
ing to  be  done.  Then  if  one  could  not  sleep  times  were  bad 
indeed.  Moreover,  even  in  the  throng  of  work  itself  one 
would  be  conscious  of  that  slipping  off  from  one  of  all  the 
trappings  of  reality.  One  by  one  they  would  slip  away 
and  then,  bewildered,  one  would  doubt  the  evidence  of  one's 
eyes,  one's  brain,  one's  ears,  the  fatigue  hammering,  ham- 
mering at  one's  consciousness.  ...  I  have  known  what 
that  kind  of  strain  can  be. 

I  left  on  the  second  morning  after  my  arrival  and  re- 
turned to  Mittovo  alone. 

Trenchard's  Diary.  Tuesday ,  August  10.  Durward  has 
been  here  for  two  days.  He's  a  good  fellow  but  I  seem 
rather  to  have  lost  touch  with  him  during  these  last  days. 
Then  he's  rather  bloodless — a  little  more  humour  would 
cheer  him  up  wonderfully.  We've  all  been  in  mad  spirits 
to-day  as  though  we  were  drunk.  The  battery  officers  have 
got  a  gramophone  that  we  turned  on.  We  danced  a  bit 
although  it's  hot  as  hell.  .  ,  .  Then  in  the  evening  my  spir- 
its suddenly  went ;  Andrey  Vassilievitch  gets  on  one's  nerves. 
His  voice  is  tiresome  and  I'm  tired  of  his  wife.  He  tells 
me  that  he  thinks  he  sees  her  at  night.  "Do  I  think  it 
likely?"  Silly  little  ass — ^just  the  way  to  rot  his  nerves. 
Funny  thing  to-night.  We  were  playing  chemivrde-fer. 
Suddenly  Semyonov  said: 

"Supposing  Molozov  says  that  only  one  of  us  is  to  stay 
on  here."  There  was  silence  after  that.  We  all  four  looked 
at  one  another.  All  I  knew  was  nothing  was  going  to  move 
me  away  from  this  place  if  I  could  help  it.  Then  Semyonov 
said: 


292  THE  DARK  FOREST 

"Of  course  I  would  have  to  stay." 

We  went  for  him  then.  You  should  have  heard  ITikitin  I 
I  didn't  believe  that  he  had  it  in  him.  Semyonov  was  quiet, 
of  course,  smiling  that  beastly  smile  of  his. 

Then  at  last  he  said : 

"Suppose  we  play  for  it  ?" 

We  agreed.  The  one  who  turned  up  the  Ace  of  Hearts 
was  to  stay.  You  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop  after  that. 
I  have  never  before  felt  what  I  felt  then.  If  I  had  to  re- 
turn and  leave  Semyonov  here!  They  say  that  the  attack 
may  develop  in  this  direction  at  any  moment.  If  Sem- 
yonov were  to  be  here  and  I  not.  .  .  .  And  yet  what  was 
it  that  I  wanted?  What  I  want  is  to  be  close  to  Marie 
again,  to  be  there  where  Semyonov  cannot  reach  us.  I 
believe  that  she  might  always  have  cared  for  me  if  he  had 
not  been  there.  Whatever  death  may  be,  I  must  know.  .  .  . 
If  there  is  nothing  more,  no  matter.  If  there  is  something 
more — then  there  is  something  for  her  as  well  as  for  me  and 
I  shall  find  her,  and  I  must  find  her  alone.  There's  nothing 
left  in  life  now  to  me  save  that.  As  I  sat  there  looking  at 
the  cards  I  knew  all  this,  knew  quite  clearly  that  I  must 
escape  Semyonov.  There's  no  madness  in  this.  Whilst 
he  is  there  I'm  nothing — but  without  him,  if  I  were  with 
her  again — I  was  always  beaten  easily  by  anybody  but  in 
this  at  least  I  can  be  strong.  I  don't  hate  him  but  I  know 
that  he  will  always  be  first  as  long  as  we're  together.  And 
we  seem  to  be  tied  now  like  dogs  by  their  tails,  tied  by  our 
thoughts  of  Marie.  .  .  . 

Well,  anyway  I  turned  up  the  Ace.  My  heart  seemed  to 
jump  right  upside  down  when  I  saw  it.  The  others  said 
nothing.     Only  Semyonov  at  last: 

"Well,  Mr.,  if  it  comes  to  it  we'll  have  to  see  that  it's 


FOUR?  293 

necessary  for  two  of  us  to  be  here.     It  will  never  do  for 

you  and  me  to  be  parted " 

Meanwhile,  the  firing's  very  close  to-night.  They  say 
the  Austrians  have  taken  Vulatch.  Shocking,  our  lack  of 
ammunition.  .  .  .  God !    The  heat ! 


CHAPTEK   V 

THE    DOOB    CLOSES    BEHIND    THEM 

y^RENCHARD'8  Diary.    Saturday,  August  IJfth.  .  .  . 

-^      Captain  T died  this  afternoon  at  four-thirty.    A 

considerable  shock  to  me.  He  was  so  young,  so  strong. 
They  all  said  that  he  had  a  remarkable  future.  He  had 
dined  with  us  several  times  at  Mittovo  and  his  vitality  had 
always  attracted  me ;  vitality  restrained  and  drilled  towards 
some  definite  purpose.  He  might  have  been  a  great  man. 
.  .  .  His  wound  in  the  stomach  did  not  hurt  him,  I  think. 
He  was  wonderfully  calm  at  the  last.  How  strange  it  is 
that  at  home  death  is  so  horrible  with  its  long  ceremonies, 
its  crowd  of  relations,  its  gradual  decay — and  here,  in  nine 
out  of  every  ten  deaths  that  I  have  seen  there  has  been  peace 
or  even  happiness.  This  is  the  merest  truth  and  will  be 
confirmed  by  any  one  who  has  worked  here.  Again  and 
again  I  have  seen  that  strange  flash  of  surprised,  almost 
startled  interest,  again  and  again  I  have  been  conscious — 
behind  not  in  the  eyes — of  the  expression  of  one  who  is 
startled  by  fresh  conditions,  a  fine  view,  a  sudden  piece  of 
news.  This  is  no  argument  for  religion,  for  any  creed  or 
dogma,  I  only  say  that  here  it  is  so,  that  Death  seems  to  be 
happiness  and  the  beginning  of  something  new  and  unex- 
pected. ...  I  believe  that  even  so  hardy  a  cynic  as  Sem- 
yonov  would  support  me  in  this.     I  and  Semyonov  were 

alone  with  young  Captain  T when  he  died.    Semyonov 

had  liked  the  man  and  had  done  everything  possible  to  save 

294 


THE  DOOR  CLOSES  295, 

him.  But  he  was  absorbed  by  his  death — absorbed  as 
though  he  would  tear  the  secret  of  it  from  the  body  that 
looked  suddenly  so  empty,  and  so  meaningless. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  he  was  happy,"  he  said  to  me.  Then 
he  stood,  looking  at  me  curiously.  I  returned  the  look.  We 
neither  of  us  said  anything.  These  are  all  commonplaces, 
I  suppose,  that  I  am  discovering.  The  only  importance  is 
that  some  ten  million  human  beings  are,  in  this  war,  mak- 
ing these  discoveries  for  themselves,  just  as  I  am.  Who 
can  tell  what  that  may  mean  ?  I  have  seen  here  no  visions, 
nor  have  I  met  any  one  who  has  seen  them,  but  there  are 
undoubted  facts — not  easy  things  to  discount. 

Sunday,  August  15.  Things  are  pretty  bad  here.  The 
Austrians  have  taken  Vulatch.  Both  on  the  right  and  on 
the  left  they  have  advanced.  They  may  arrive  here  at  any 
moment.  The  magnificence  of  the  Russian  soldier  is  surely 
beyond  all  praise.  I  wonder  whether  people  in  France  and 
England  realise  that  for  the  last  three  months  here  he  has 
been  fighting  with  one  bullet  as  against  ten.  He  stands  in 
his  trench  practically  unarmed  against  an  enemy  whose 
resources  seem  endless — but  nothing  can  turn  him  back. 
Whatever  advances  the  Germans  may  make  I  see  Russia 
returning  again  and  again.  I  do  from  the  bottom  of  my 
soul,  and,  what  is  of  more  importance,  from  the  sober  wit- 
ness of  my  eyes,  here  believe  that  nothing  can  stop  the  im- 
petus bom  of  her  new  spirit.  This  war  is  the  beginning 
of  a  world  history  for  her. 

Krylov  this  afternoon  said  that  he  thought  that  we  should 
leave  this  place,  get  out  our  wagons  and  retire.  But  how 
can  we  ?  At  this  moment,  how  can  we  ?  We  are  just  now 
at  the  most  critical  meeting  of  the  ways — the  extra  twelve 
versts  back  to  Mittovo  may  make  the  whole  difference  to 
many  of  the  cases,  and  the  doctors  of  the  Division,  Krylov 


296  THE  DAKK  FOEEST 

himself  admits,  have  got  their  arms  full.  We  simply  can't 
leave  them.  .  .  .  There  has  been  some  confusion  here. 
There  doesn't  seem  any  responsible  person  to  give  us  orders. 
Colonel  Maximoff  has  forgotten  us,  I  believe.  In  any  case 
I  think  that  we  must  stay  on  here  for  another  day  and 
night.     Perhaps  we  shall  get  away  to-morrow.  .  .  . 

I  had  a  queer  experience  this  afternoon.  I  don't  want 
to  make  too  much  of  it  but  here  it  is.  I  went  up  to  my 
room  this  afternoon  at  five  to  get  some  sleep,  as  I'm  on  duty 
to-night.  I  lay  down  and  shut  my  eyes  and  then,  of  course, 
as  I  always  do,  immediately  saw  Marie  Ivanovna.  I  know 
quite  clearly  that  this  present  relationship  to  her  cannot 
continue  for  long  or  I  shall  be  off  my  head.  I  can  see  my- 
self quite  clearly  as  though  I  were  outside  myself,  and  I 
know  that  I'm  madder  now  than  I  was  a  week  ago.  For 
instance  in  this  business  of  Marie  Ivanovna,  I  knew  then 
that  my  seeing  her  was  an  illusion — ^now  I  am  not  quite 
sure.  I  knew  a  week  ago  that  I  saw  her  because  she  is  so 
much  in  my  thoughts,  because  of  the  intolerable  heat,  be- 
cause of  the  Flies  and  the  Forest,  because  of  Semyonov. 
I  am  not  sure  now  whether  it  is  not  her  wish  that  I  should 
see  her.  She  comes  as  she  came  on  those  last  days  before  she 
left  me — with  all  the  kindness  in  her  eyes  that  no  fther 
human  being  has  ever  given  me  before,  nor  will  ever  give  me 
again.  To-day  I  looked  and  was  not  sure  whether  she  were 
gone  or  no.  I  was  not  sure  of  several  things  in  the  room 
and  as  I  lay  there  I  said  to  myself,  "Is  that  really  a  looking- 
glass  or  no  ?"  "If  I  tried  could  I  touch  it  or  would  it  fade 
from  under  my  hand?"  The  room  was  intolerably  close 
and  there  was  a  fly  who  persecuted  me.  As  I  lay  there  he 
came  and  settled  on  my  hand.  He  waited,  watching  me 
with  his  wicked  sneering  eyes,  then  he  crept  forward,  and 
waited  again,  rubbing  his  legs  one  against  the  other.    Then 


THE  DOOR  CLOSES  297 

very  slyly,  laughing  to  himself,  he  began  to  tickle  me.  I 
slashed  with  my  hand  at  him,  he  flew  into  the  air,  sneering, 
then  with  a  little  "ping"  settled  on  the  back  of  my  neck.  I 
vowed  that  I  would  not  mind  him;  I  lay  still.  He  began 
then  to  crawl  very  slowly  forward  towards  my  chin,  and  it 
was  as  though  he  were  dragging  spidery  strands  of  nerves 
through  my  body,  fitting  them  all  on  to  stiff,  tight  wires. 
He  reached  my  chin,  and  then  again,  sneering  up  into  my 
eyes,  he  began  to  tickle.  I  thought  once  more  that  I  had 
him,  but  once  again  he  was  in  the  air.  Then,  after  waiting 
until  I  had  almost  sunk  back  into  sleep,  he  did  the  worst 
thing  that  a  fly  can  do,  began,  very  slowly,  to  crawl  down 
the  inside  of  my  pince-nez  (I  had  been  trying  to  read).  He 
got  between  the  glass  and  my  eyelash  and  moved  very 
faintly  with  his  damnable  legs.  Then  my  patience  went — 
I  did  what  during  these  last  days  I  have  vowed  not  to  do, 
lost  my  control,  jumped  from  my  bed,  and  cursed  with 
lage.  ... 

Then  with  my  head  almost  bursting  with  heat  and  my 
legs  trembling  I  had  an  awful  moment,  I  thought  that  I 
was  really  mad.  I  thought  that  I  would  get  the  looking- 
glass  and  smash  it  and  that  then  I  would  jump  from  the 
window.  In  another  moment  I  thought  that  something 
would  break  in  my  head,  the  something  with  which  I  kept 
control  over  myself — I  seemed  to  hear  myself  praying 
aloud :  "Oh  God !  let  me  keep  my  reason !  Oh  God !  let  me 
keep  my  reason!"  and  I  could  see  the  Forest  like  a  great 
green  hot  wave  rising  beyond  the  window  to  a  towering 
height  ready  to  leap  down  upon  me. 

Then  Semyonov  came  in.  He  stood  in  the  doorway  and 
looked  at  me.  He  must  have  thought  me  strange  and  I 
know  that  I  waited,  staring  at  him,  feeling  foolish  as  I 
always  do  with  him.    But  he  spoke  to  me  kindly,  with  the 


298  THE  DARK  FOREST 

sort  of  kindness  that  there  is  sometimes  in  his  voice,  patron- 
ising and  reluctant  of  course. 

"You  can't  sleep,  Mr.  ?"  he  said. 

"JSTo,"  I  answered,  and  said  something  about  flies. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  to  the  looking-glass?"  he 
asked,  laughing,  for  there  the  thing  was  on  the  floor,  broken 
into  pieces.    I  am  sure  that  I  never  touched  it. 

"That's  unlucky,"  he  said.  "Never  mind,  Mr.,"  he 
said  smiling  at  me,  "twenty-two  misfortunes,  aren't  you? 
Always  dropping  something,"  he  added  quite  kindly. 
"More,  perhaps,  than  the  rest  of  us.  .  .  .  Wash  your  face 
in  cold  water.     It's  this  infernal  heat  that  worries  us  all." 

I  remember  then  that  he  poured  the  water  into  the  blue 
tin  basin  for  me  and  then,  taking  the  tin  mug  himself, 
poured  it  in  cupfuls  over  my  hands  and  arms.  I  afterwards 
did  the  same  for  him.  At  that  moment  I  very  nearly  spoke 
to  him  of  Marie.  I  wished  desperately  to  try ;  but  I  looked 
at  his  face,  and  his  eyes,  laughing  at  me  as  they  always  did, 
stopped  me. 

When  I  had  finished  he  thanked  me,  wiped  his  hands, 
then  turning  round  at  the  door  he  said:  "Why  don't  you 
go  back  to  Mittovo,  Mr.  .  .  .  You're  tired  out." 

"You  know  why,"  I  answered,  without  looking  at  him. 
He  seemed  then  as  though  he  would  speak,  but  he  stopped 
himself  and  went  away.  I  lay  down  again  and  tried  to 
sleep,  but  when  I  closed  my  eyes  the  green  beyond  the  win- 
dow burnt  through  my  eyelids — and  then  the  fly  (I  am 
sure  it  was  the  same  fly)  returned.  .  .  . 

Monday,  August  16.  .  .  ,  Lord!  but  I  am  tired  of  this 
endless  bandaging,  cleaning  of  filthy  wounds,  paring  away 
of  ragged  ends  of  flesh,  smelling,  breathing,  drinking  blood 
and  dust  and  dirt.  The  poor  fellows !  Their  bravery  is  be- 
yond any  word  of  mine.     They  have  come  these  last  few 


THE  DOOR  CLOSES    .  299 

days  with  their  eyes  dazed  and  their  ears  deafened.  Indeed 
the  roaring  of  the  cannon  has  been  since  yesterday  after- 
noon incessant.  They  say  that  the  Austrians  are  straining 
every  nerve  to  break  through  to  the  river  and  cross.  We  are 
doing  what  we  can  to  prevent  them,  but  what  can  we  do? 
There  simply  IS  NOT  AMMUNITION !  The  officers  here 
are  ahnost  crying  with  despair,  and  the  men  know  it  and 
go  on,  with  their  cheerfulness,  their  obedience,  their  mild 
kindliness — go  into  that  green  hell  to  be  butchered,  and 
come  out  of  it  again,  if  they  are  lucky,  with  their  bodies 
mangled  and  twisted,  and  horror  in  their  eyes.  It's  no- 
body's fault,  I  suppose,  this  business.  How  easy  to  write 
in  the  daily  papers  that  the  Germans  prepared  for  war 
and  that  we  did  not,  and  that  after  a  month  or  two  all  will 
be  well.  .  .  .  After  a  month  or  two!  tell  that  to  us  here 
stuck  in  this  Forest  and  hear  us  how  we  laugh!  .  .  . 

Meanwhile,  for  the  good  of  my  health,  I'm  figuring  very 
clearly  to  myself  all  the  physical  features  of  this  place. 
It's  a  long  white  house,  two-storied.  The  front  door  has 
broken  glass  over  it  and  there's  a  litter  of  tumbled  bricks 
on  the  top  step.  After  you've  gone  through  the  front  door 
you  come  into  the  hall  where  the  wounded  are  as  thick  as 
flies.  You  go  through  the  hall  and  turn  to  the  left.  There's 
a  pantry  place  on  your  right  all  full  of  flies  and  when  you 
open  the  door  thej-^  unsettle  with  a  great  buzz  and  shift  into 
all  sorts  of  shapes  and  patterns.  Next  to  them  is  our  sit- 
ting-room, the  horrid  place  always  dirty  and  stifling.  Then 
there's  the  operating-room,  then  another  room  for  beds,  then 
the  kitchen.  Outside  to  the  right  there's  the  garden,  dry 
now  with  the  heat,  and  the  orchard  smells  of  the  men 
they've  buried  in  it.  To  the  left,  after  a  little  clearing, 
there's  the  forest  always  green  and  glittering.  The  men  are 
in  the  trenches  now,  the  new  ones  that  were  made  last  week, 


300  THE  DARK  FOREST 

so  I  suppose  that  we  shall  be  in  the  thick  of  it  very  shortly. 
That  battery  at  the  edge  of  the  hill  has  been  banging  away 
all  the  morning.  What  else  is  there  ?  There's  an  old  pump 
just  outside  the  sitting-room  window.  There's  a  litter  of 
dirty  paper  and  refuse  there,  too,  that  the  flies  gather  round. 
There's  an  old  barn  away  to  the  right  where  some  horses 
are  and  two  cows.  I  have  to  keep  my  mind  on  these  things 
because  I  know  they're  real.  You  can  touch  them  with 
your  hands  and  they'll  still  be  there  even  if  you  go  away — 
they  won't  walk  with  you  as  you  move.  So  I  must  fasten 
on  to  these  things  about  which  there  can't  be  any  doubt.  In 
the  same  way  I  like  to  remember  that  book  in  the  sitting- 
room — Mr.  Glass  who  lectured  on  "Fools,"  the  Ruysdael, 
and  the  N^ormal  Pupils  who  acted  Othello.  They're  real 
enough  and  are  probably  somewhere  now  quietly  studying, 
or  teaching,  or  sleeping — I  envy  them.  .  .  . 

A  thing  that  happened  this  morning  disturbed  us  all. 
Four  soldiers  came  out  of  the  Forest  quite  mad.  They 
seemed  rational  enough  at  first  and  said  that  they'd  been 
sent  out  of  the  first  line  trenches  with  contusion — one  of 
them  had  a  bleeding  finger,  but  the  others  were  untouched. 
Then  one  of  them,  a  middle-aged  man  with  a  black  beard, 
began  quite  gravely  to  tell  us  that  the  Forest  was  moving. 
They  had  seen  it  with  their  own  eyes.  They  had  watched 
all  the  trees  march  slowly  forward  like  columns  of  soldiers 
and  soon  the  whole  Forest  would  move  and  would  crush 
every  one  in  it.  It  was  all  very  well  fighting  Austrians, 
but  whole  forests  was  more  than  any  one  could  expect  of 
them.  Then  suddenly  one  of  them  cried  out,  pointing  with 
his  finger :  "See,  Your  Honour — there  it  comes !  .  .  .  Ah ! 
let  us  run !  let  us  run !"  One  of  them  began  to  cry.  It  was 
very  disagreeable.  I  saw  Audrey  Vassilievitch  who  was 
present  glance  anxiously  through  the  window  at  the  For- 


THE  DOOR  CLOSES  301 

est  and  then  gravely  check  himself  and  look  at  me  nervously 
to  see  whether  I  had  noticed.  The  men  afterwards  fell  into 
a  strange  kind  of  apathy.  We  sent  them  off  to  Mittovo  in 
the  afternoon. 

I  want  now  to  remember  as  exactly  as  possible  a  strange 
conversation  I  had  this  evening  with  Semyonov.  I  came 
up  when  it  was  getting  dusk  to  the  bedroom.  One  of  the 
Austrian  batteries  was  spitting  away  over  the  hill  but  we 
were  not  replying.  Everything  this  afternoon  has  looked 
as  though  they  were  preparing  for  a  heavy  attack.  Our  lit- 
tle window  was  open  and  the  sky  beyond  was  a  sort  of  very 
pale  green,  and  against  this  you  could  see  a  flush  of  colour 
rising  and  falling  like  the  opening  and  shutting  of  a  door. 
Everything  quite  silent  except  the  Austrian  cannon  and  a 
soldier,  delirious,  downstairs,  singing. 

The  Forest  was  deep  black,  but  you  could  see  the  sol- 
diers' fires  gleaming  here  and  there  like  beasts'  eyes.  Our 
room  was  almost  dark  and  I  was  very  startled  to  find 
Semyonov  sitting  on  his  bed  and  staring  in  front  of  him. 
He  looked  like  a  wooden  figure  sitting  there,  and  he  didn't 
move  as  I  came  in.  I'm  glad  that  although  I'm  still  awk- 
ward and  clumsy  with  him  (as  I  am,  and  always  will  be,  I 
suppose,  with  every  one)  I'm  not  afraid  of  him  any  more. 
The  room  was  so  dark  that  he  looked  like  a  shadow.  I  had 
intended  to  fetch  something  and  go  away,  but  instead  of 
that  I  sat  down  on  my, bed,  feeling  suddenly  very  tired  and 
lethargic. 

"Well,  Mr.,"  he  said  in  the  ironical  voice  he  always 
uses  to  me. 

(I  would  wish  now  to  repeat  if  I  can  every  word  of  our 
conversation.) 

"Krylov  has  been  again,"  I  said.  "He  told  Nikitin  that 
we  ought  to  go  to-night.     Nikitin  asked  him  whether  the 


302  THE  DAEK  FOKEST 

Division  had  plenty  of  wagons  and  Krylov  admitted  that 
there  weren't  nearly  enough.  He  agreed  that  it  would  make 
a  lot  of  difference  if  we  could  keep  this  place  going  until 
to-morrow  night — all  the  same  he  advised  us  to  leave." 

"We'll  stay  until  some  one  prders  us  to  go,"  said  Sem- 
yonov.  "It  will  make  a  difference  to  a  hundred  men  or 
more  probably.  If  they  do  start  firing  on  to  this  place  we 
can  get  the  men  off  in  the  wagons  in  time." 

"And  what  if  the  wagons  have  left  for  Mittovo  ?" 

"We'll  have  to  wait  until  they  come  back,"  he  answered. 

We  sat  there  listening  to  the  cannon.  Then  Semyonov 
said  very  quietly  and  not  at  all  ironically,  "I  wish  to  ask 
you — I  have  wished  before — ^tell  me.  You  blame  me  for 
her  death?" 

I  thought  for  a  moment,  then  I  replied: 

"I  did  so  at  first.  I^ow  I  do  not  think  that  it  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  you  or  with  me  or  with  any  one — except 
herself." 

"Except  herself  ?"  he  said.    "What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"She  wished  it,  I  think." 

His  irony  returned.  "You  believe  in  the  power  of  oth- 
ers, Mr.,  too  much.    You  should  believe  more  in  your  own." 

"I  believe  in  her  power.  She  was  stronger  than  you,"  I 
answered. 

"I'm  sure  that  you  like  to  think  so,"  he  said  laughing. 

"She  is  still  stronger  than  you.  .  .  ." 

"So  you  are  a  mystic,  Mr.,"  he  said.  "Of  course,  with 
your  romantic  mind  that  is  only  natural.  You  believe,  I 
suppose,  that  she  is  with  us  here  in  the  room?" 

"It  cannot  be  of  interest  to  you,"  I  answered  quietly, 
"what  I  believe." 

"Yes,  it  is  of  interest,"  he  replied  in  a  voice  that  was 
friendly  and  humorously  indulgent,  as  though  he  spoke 


THE  DOOR  CLOSES  303 

to  a  child.  "I  find  it  strange — I  have  found  it  strange 
for  many  weeks  now — that  I  should  think  so  frequently  of 
you.  You  are  not  a  man  who  would  naturally  he  interesting 
to  me.  You  are  an  Englishman  and  I  am  not  interested 
in  Englishmen.  You  are  sentimental,  you  have  no  idea  of 
life  as  it  is,  you  like  dull  things,  dull  safe  things,  you  be- 
lieve always  in  what  you  are  told.  You  have  no  sense  of 
humour.  .  .  .  You  should  be  of  no  interest  to  me,  and  yet 
during  these  last  weeks  I  have  not  been  able  to  get  rid  of 
you." 

"That  is  not  my  fault,"  I  said.  "I  have  not  been  so  anx- 
ious for  your  company." 

"No,"  he  said,  speaking  rather  thoughtfully,  as  though 
he  were  seriously  thinking  something  out,  "you  regard  me, 
of  course,  as  a  very  bad  character.  I  have  no  desire  to  de- 
fend myself  to  you.  But  the  point  is  that  I  have  found 
myself  often  thinking  of  you,  that  I  have  even  taken  trouble 
sometimes  to  be  with  you." 

He  waited  as  though  he  expected  me  to  say  something, 
but  I  was  silent. 

"It  was  perhaps  that  I  saw  that  Marie  Ivanovna  cared 
for  you.  She  gave  you  up  to  the  end  something  that  she 
never  gave  to  me.    That  I  suppose  was  tiresome  to  me." 

"You  thought  you  knew  her,"  I  said,  hoping  to  hurt  him. 
"You  did  not  know  her  at  all." 

"That  may  be,"  he  answered.  "I  certainly  did  not  un- 
derstand her,  but  that  was  attractive  to  me.  And  so,  Mr., 
you  thought  that  you  understood  her  ?" 

But  I  did  not  answer  him.  My  head  ached  frantically, 
I  was  wretchedly  in  want  of  sleep.  I  jumped  to  my  feet, 
standing  in  front  of  him : 

"Leave  me  alone!  Leave  me  alone!"  I  cried.  "Let  us 
part.    I  am  nothing  to  you — ^you  despise  me  and  laugh  at 


304  THE  DARK  FOREST 

me — jou  have  from  the  first  done  so.  It  was  because  you 
laughed  at  me  that  she  began  to  laugh.  If  you  had  not  been 
there  she  might  have  continued  to  love  me — she  was  very 
inexperienced.  And  now  that  she  is  gone  I  am  of  no  more 
importance  to  you — let  me  be!  For  God's  sake,  let  me 
be!" 

"You  are  free,"  he  said.  "You  can  return  to  Mittovo 
in  an  hour's  time  when  the  wagons  go." 

I  did  not  speak. 

"No,  you  will  not  go,"  he  went  on,  "because  you  think 
that  she  is  here.  She  died  here — and  you  believe  that  she 
is  not  dead.     I  also  will  not  go — for  my  own  reasons." 

Then  he  jumped  off  his  bed,  stood  upright  against  me, 
his  clothes  touching  mine.  He  put  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder. 

"'No,  Mr.,  we  will  remain  together.  I  find  you  really 
rather  charming.  And  you  are  changed,  you  know.  You 
are  not  the  silly  fool  you  were  when  you  first  came  to  us !" 

I  moved  away  from  him.  I  could  not  bear  the  touch 
of  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  I  had,  I  repeat,  no  fear  of 
him.  He  might  laugh  at  me  or  no  as  he  pleased,  but  I 
did  not  want  his  kindness. 

"My  beliefs  seem  to  you  the  beliefs  of  a  child,"  I  said, 
trying  to  speak  more  calmly.  "Well,  then,  leave  me  to 
them.  They  at  least  do  you  no  harm.  I  love  her  now  as 
I  loved  her  when  I  first  saw  her.  I  cannot  believe  that  I 
shall  never  be  with  her  again.  But  that  is  my  own  affair 
and  matters  to  no  one  but  myself !" 

He  answered  me :  "You  have  a  simple  fashion  of  looking 
at  things  which  I  envy  you.  I  assure  you  that  I  am  not 
laughing  at  you.  You  believe,  if  I  understand  you,  that 
after  your  death  you  will  meet  her  again.  You  are  afraid 
that  if  I  die  before  you  she  will  belong  to  me,  but  that  if  you 


THE  DOOE  CLOSES  305 

die  first  you  will  be  with  her  again  as  you  were  'at  the  be- 
ginning' ?  ...  Is  not  that  so  ?" 

I  did  not  answer  him. 

"I  swear  to  you,"  he  continued,  "that  I  am  not  mocking 
you.  What  my  own  thoughts  may  be  does  not  interest  you, 
but  I  have  not,  in  my  life,  found  many  things  or  persons 
that  are  worth  one's  devotion,  and  she  was  worthy  of  being 
loved  as  you  love  her.  Such  days  as  these  in  such  a  place 
as  this  must  bring  strange  thoughts  to  any  man.  When  we 
return  to  Mittovo  to-morrow  night  I  assure  you  that  you  will 
see  everything  differently." 

He  felt,  I  suppose,  that  he  had  been  speaking  too  seri- 
ously because  the  ironic  humour  with  which  he  always 
treated  me  returned. 

"Here,  Mr.,  at  any  rate  we  are.  I'm  sorry  for  you — ^tire- 
some to  be  tied  to  .some  one  as  imcongenial  as  myself — but 
be  a  little  sorry  for  me,  too.  You're  not,  you  know,  the 
ideal  companion  I  would  have  chosen." 

"Why  did  you  come  ?"  I  asked  him.  "Durward  was  here 
— ^we  were  doing  very  well " 

"Without  me" — ^he  caught  me  up.  "Yes,  I  suppose  so. 
But  your  fascination  is  so  strong  that — "  He  broke  off 
laughing,  then  continued  almost  sharply:  "Here  we  are 
anyway.  To-night  and  to-morrow  we  are  going  to  be  lively 
enough  if  I  know  anything  about  it.  I'll  do  you  the  jus- 
tice, Mr.,  of  saying  you've  worked  admirably  here.  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  you.  Let  us  both  of  us  drop 
our  romantic  fancies.  We've  no  time  to  spare."  Then, 
turning  at  the  door,  he  ended :  "And  you  needn't  hate  me 
80  badly,  you  know.  She  cared  for  you  in  a  way  that  she 
never  gave  me.  Perhaps,  after  all,  in  the  end,  you  will 
win " 

He  gave  me  one  last  word : 


306  THE  DAEK  FOREST 

"All  the  same  I  don't  give  her  up  to  you,"  he  said. 

When  I  came  downstairs  again  it  was  to  find  confusion 
and  noise.  In  the  first  place  little  Andrey  Vassilievitch 
was  quarrelling  loudly  with  Nikitin.  He  was  speaking 
Russian  very  fast  and  I  did  not  discover  his  complaint. 
There  was  something  comic  in  the  sight  of  his  small  body 
towering  to  a  perfect  tempest  of  rage,  his  plump  hands  ges- 
ticulating and  always  his  eyes,  anxious  and  self-important, 
doing  their  best  to  look  after  his  dignity.  Nikitin  explained 
to  me  that  he  had  been  urging  Andrey  Vassilievitch  to  re- 
turn to  Mittovo  with  the  wagons.  "There's  no  need,"  he 
said,  "for  us  all  to  stay.  It's  only  taking  unnecessary  risks 
— ^and  somebody  should  take  charge  of  the  wagons." 

"There's  Feodor  Constantinovitch,"  said  Andrey,  nam- 
ing a  feldscher  and  stammering  in  his  rage.  "He's  re-re- 
sponsible enough."  Then,  seeing  that  he  was  creating  some- 
thing of  a  scene,  he  relapsed  into  a  would-be  dignified  sul- 
kiness,  finally  said  he  would  not  go,  and  strutted  away. 

There  were  many  other  disturbances,  men  coming  and 
going,  one  of  the  battery  officers  appearing  for  a  moment 
dirty  and  dishevelled,  and  always  the  wounded  drowsy  or 
in  delirium,  watching  with  dull  eyes  the  evening  shadows, 
talking  excitedly  in  their  sleep.  Semyonov  called  me  to 
help  in  the  operating  room.  Within  the  next  two  hours  he 
had  carried  out  two  amputations  with  admirable  cool  com- 
posure. During  the  second  one,  when  the  man's  arm  tum- 
bled off  into  the  basin  and  lay  there  amongst  the  filthy  rags 
with  the  dirty  white  fingers  curved,  their  nails  dead  and 
grey,  I  suddenly  felt  violently  sick. 

A  sanitar  took  my  place  and  I  went  out  into  the  cool  of 
the  forest,  where  a  silver  pattern  of  stars  swung  now  above 
the  branches  and  a  full  moon,  red  and  cold,  was  rising  be- 


THE  BOOK  CLOSES  807 

yond  the  hill.  After  a  time  I  felt  better  and,  finding  that 
I  was  not  needed  for  a  time,  I  wrote  this  diary. 

Tuesday,  August  17th.  It  is  just  six  o'clock — a  most 
lovely  evening.  Strangely  enough  everything  is  utterly 
quiet — not  a  sound  anywhere.  You  might  fancy  yourself 
in  the  depths  of  England  somewhere.  However,  consider- 
ing what  has  happened  to-day  and  what  they  expect  will 
happen  now  at  any  moment,  the  strain  on  our  nerves  is 
pretty  severe,  and  as  usual  at  such  times  I  will  fill  in  my 
diary.  This  is  probably  the  last  time  that  I  write  it  here  as 
we  move  as  soon  as  the  wagons  return,  which  should  be 
in  about  two  hours  from  now. 

All  our  things  are  packed  and  I  shall  slip  this  book  into 
my  bag  as  soon  as  I  have  written  this  entry;  but  I  have 
probably  two  or  three  hours  clear  for  writing,  as  everything 
is  ready  for  departure.  Meanwhile  I  am  wonderfully  tran- 
quil and  at  peace,  able,  too,  to  think  clearly  and  rationally 
for  the  first  time  since  Marie's  death.  I  want  to  give  an 
account  of  the  events  since  my  last  entry  minutely  and  as 
truthfully  as  my  memory  allows  me. 

At  about  half-past  eleven  last  night  Semyonov  and  I  went 
up  to  our  bedroom  to  sleep,  Nikitin  being  on  duty.  There 
was  not  much  noise,  the  cannon  sounding  a  considerable 
distance  away,  but  the  flashlights  and  rockets  against  the 
night-sky  were  wonderful,  and  when  we  had  blown  out  the 
candle  our  dark  little  room  leapt  up  and  down  or  turned 
round  and  round,  the  window  flashing  into  vision  and  out 
again.  Semyonov  was  almost  immediately  asleep,  but  I  lay 
on  my  back  and,  of  course,  as  usual,  thought  of  Marie.  My 
headache  of  the  evening  still  raged  furiously  and  I  was 
in  desperately  low  spirits.  I  had  been  able  to  eat  noth- 
ing during  the  preceding  day.  I  lay  there  half  asleep,  half 
awake,  for,  I  suppose,  a  long  time,  hearing  the  window  rat- 


308  THE  DARK  FOREST 

tie  sometimes  when  the  cannon  was  noisy  and  feeling  under 
the  jerky  reflections  on  the  wall  as  though  I  were  in  an  old 
shambling  cab  driving  along  a  dark  road.  I  thought  a  good 
deal  about  that  talk  with  Semyonov  that  I  had.  What  a 
strange  man !  But  then  I  do  not  understand  him  at  all.  I 
don't  think  I  understand  any  Russian,  such  a  mixture  of 
hardness  and  softness  as  they  are,  kind  and  then  indifferent, 
cruel  and  then  sentimental.  But  I  understand  people  very 
little,  and  in  all  my  years  at  Polchester  there  was  never  one 
single  person  whom  I  knew.  Semyonov  is  perfectly  right, 
I  suppose,  from  his  point  of  view  to  think  me  a  fool.  I  lay 
there  thinking  of  Semyonov.  He  was  sleeping  on  his  back, 
looking  very  big  under  the  clothes,  his  beard  square  and 
stiff,  lit  up  by  the  flashing  light  and  then  sinking  into  dark- 
ness again.  I  thought  of  him  and  of  myself  and  of  the 
strange  contrast  that  we  were,  and  how  queer  it  was  that 
the  same  woman  should  have  cared  for  both  of  us.  And  I 
know  that,  although  I  did  not  hate  him  at  all,  I  would  give 
almost  anything  for  him  not  to  have  been  there,  never  to 
have  been  there.  Whilst  he  was  there  I  knew  that  I  had 
no  chance.  Marie  had  not  laughed  at  me  during  those  days 
at  Petrograd ;  she  had  believed  in  me  then  and  I  had  been 
worth  believing  in.  If  people  had  believed  in  me  more  I 
might  be  a  very  different  man  now. 

I  was  almost  asleep,  scarcely  conscious  of  the  room,  when 
suddenly  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  "Marie!  Marie!  Marie!" 
three  times.  It  was  a  voice  that  I  had  never  heard  before, 
strong  but  also  tender,  full  of  pain,  with  a  note  in  it  too 
of  a  struggling  self-control  that  would  break  in  a  moment 
and  overwhelm  its  possessor.  As  I  look  back  at  it  I  remem- 
ber that  I  felt  the  passion  and^  strength  in  it  so  violently  that 
I  seemed  to  shrink  into  myself,  as  though  I  were  witness- 
ing something  that  no  man  should  see,  and  as  though  also 


THE  DOOR  CLOSES  309' 

I  were  conscious  of  my  own  weakness  and  insignificance. 

It  was  Semyonov.  The  flashlight  flashed  into  the  room, 
shining  for  an  instant  upon  him.  He  was  sitting  up  in  bed, 
his  shirt  open  and  his  chest  bare.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  window,  but  he  was  fast  asleep.  He  seemed  to  me  a 
new  man.  I  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  his  sarcasm,  his 
irony,  that  I  had  almost  persuaded  myself  that  he  had  never 
truly  loved  Marie,  but  had  felt  some  sensual  attraction  for 
her  that  would,  by  realisation,  have  been  at  once  satisfied. 
This  was  another  man.  Here  was  a  stniggle,  an  agony 
that  was  not  for  such  men  as  I. 

He  cried  again,  "Marie!  Marie!"  then  got  up  out  of 
bed,  walked  on  his  naked  feet  in  his  shirt  to  the  window, 
stood  there  and  waited.  The  moonlight  had,  by  this, 
struck  our  room  and  flooded  it.  He  turned  suddenly  and 
faced  me.  I  could  not  believe  that  he  did  not  see  me,  but 
I  could  not  endure  the  unhappiness  in  his  eyes  and  I 
turned,  looking  down.  I  did  not  look  at  him  again  but  I 
heard  his  feet  patter  back  to  the  bed;  then  he  stood  there, 
his  whole  body  strung  to  meet  some  overmastering  crisis. 
He  whispered  her  name  as  though  she  had  come  to  him 
since  his  first  call.  "Ah,  Marie,  my  darling,"  he  whis- 
pered. 

I  could  not  bear  that.  I  crept  from  my  bed,  slipped 
away,  closed  the  door  softly  behind  me  and  stole  down- 
stairs. 

I  cannot  write  at  length  of  what  followed.  It  was  the 
crisis  of  everything  that  has  happened  to  me  since  I  left 
Petrograd.  Every  experience  that  I  had  had  was  suddenly 
flung  into  this  moment.  I  was  in  our  sitting-room  now, 
pitch  dark  because  shutters  had  been  placed  outside  the 
windows  to  guard  against  bullets.  I  stood  there  in  ray  shirt 
and  drawers:  shuddering,  shivering  with  hatred  of  myself, 


310  THE  DAEK  FOREST 

shivering  with  fear  of  Semyonov,  shivering  above  all,  with 
a  desperate,  agonising,  torturing  hunger  for  Marie.  Sem- 
yonov's  voice  had  appalled  me.  I  hadn't  realised  before 
how  strongly  I  had  relied  on  his  not  truly  caring  for  her. 
Everything  in  the  man  had  seemed  to  persuade  me  of  this, 
and  I  had  even  flattered  myself  on  my  miserable  superiority 
to  him,  that  I  was  the  true  faithful  lover  and  he  the  vulgar 
sensualist.  How  small  now  I  seemed  beside  him! — and 
how  I  feared  him !  Then  I  was  at  sudden  fierce  grip  with 
the  beast !  ...  At  grips  at  last ! 

I  had  once  before,  on  another  night,  been  tempted  to  kill 
myself,  but  that  had  been  nothing  to  this.  Now  sick  and 
ill,  faint  for  food,  I  swayed  there  on  the  floor,  hearing 
always  in  my  ear — "Give  way !  Give  way !  .  .  .  You'll  be 
in  front  of  him,  you'll  have  left  him  behind  you,  he  can  do 
nothing  ...  a  moment  more  and  you  can  be  with  her — 
and  he  cannot  reach  you!" 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  fought  there.  I  was  not  fight^ 
ing  with  an  evil  devil,  a  fearful  beast  as  in  my  dreams  I 
had  always  imagined  it — I  was  fighting  myself:  every 
weakness  in  the  past  to  which  I  had  ever  surrendered,  every 
little  scrap  of  personal  history,  every  slackness  and  coward- 
ice and  lethargy  was  there  on  the  floor  against  me. 

I  don't  know  what  it  was  that  prevented  me  stealing  back 
to  my  room,  fetching  my  revolver  and  so  ending  it.  I 
could  see  Marie  close  to  me,  to  be  reached  by  the  stretching 
of  a  finger.  I  could  see  myself  living  on,  always  conscious 
of  Semyonov,  his  thick  beastly  confident  body  always  there 
between  myself  and  her. 

I  sank  into  the  last  depths  of  self-despair  and  degrada- 
tion. No  fine  thing  saved  me,  no  help  from  noble  principles, 
nothing  fine.  The  whole  was  as  sordid  as  possible.  I  knew, 
even  as  I  struggled,  that  I  was  a  silly  figure  there,  with  my 


THE  DOOR  CLOSES  311 

bony  ugliness,  in  my  shirt  and  drawers,  my  hair  on  end 
and  my  teeth  chattering.  But  I  responded,  I  suppose,  to 
some  little  pulse  of  manly  obstinacy  that  beat  somewhere  in 
me.  I  would  not  be  beaten  by  the  Creature.  Even  in  the 
middle  of  it  I  realised  that  this  was  the  hardest  tussle  of  my 
life  and  worth  fighting.  I  know  too  that  some  thought  of 
Nikitin  came  to  me  as  though,  in  some  way,  my  failure 
would  damage  him.  I  remembered  that  night  of  the  Re- 
treat when  he  had  helped  me  and,  as  though  he  were  ap- 
pealing visibly  to  me  there  in  the  room,  I  responded;  I 
seemed  to  feel  that  he  was  fighting  some  battle  of  his  own 
and  that  my  victory  would  fortify  him.  I  stood  with  him 
beside  me.  So  I  fought  it,  fought  it  with  the  sweat  drip- 
ping down  my  nose  and  my  tongue  dry.  "No !"  something 
suddenly  cried  in  me.  "If  she's  his,  she's  his — I  will  not 
take  her  this  way !" — then  in  a  snivelling,  miserable  fashion 
I  began  to  cry,  simply  from  exhaustion  and  nerves  and 
headache.  I  slipped  down  into  a  chair.  I  sat  there  feeling 
utterly  beaten  and  yet  in  some  dim  way,  as  one  hears 
a  trumpet  sounding  behind  a  range  of  hills,  I  was  triumph- 
ant. There  with  my  head  on  the  table  and  my  nose,  I 
believe,  in  a  plate  left  from  some  one's  last  night's  supper, 
I  slept  a  heavy,  dreamless  sleep. 

I  woke  and  heard  a  clock  in  the  room  strike  three.  I 
got  up,  stretched  my  arms,  yawned  and  knew  that  my  head 
was  clear  and  my  brain  at  peace.  I  can't  describe  my 
feelings  better  than  by  saying  that  it  was  as  though  I  had 
put  my  brain  and  my  heart  and  all  my  fears  and  terrors 
under  a  good  stiff  pump  of  cold  water.  I  felt  a  different 
man  from  four  hours  before,  although  still  desperately 
tired  and  physically  weak. 

I  went  softly  upstairs.  The  light  of  a  most  lovely  sum- 
mer morning  flooded  the  room.    Semyonov  was  lying,  sleep- 


312  THE  DAEK  FOREST 

ing  like  a  child,  his  head  pillowed  on  his  arm.  Very  cau- 
tiously I  dressed,  then  went  downstairs  again.  I  did 
not  understand  now — the  peace  and  happiness  in  my  heart. 
All  the  time  I  was  saying  to  myself :  "Why  am  I  so  happy  ? 
Why  am  I  so  happy  ?"  .  .  . 

The  world  was  marvellously  fresh,  with  little  white  glit- 
tering clouds  above  the  trees,  the  grass  wet  and  shining, 
and  the  sky  a  high  dome  of  blue  light,  like  the  inside  of  a 
glass  bell  that  has  the  sun  behind  it.  Here  and  there  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  Forest  fires  were  still  dimly  burning, 
pale  and  dim  yellow  shadows  beneath  the  sun.  Men 
wrapped  in  their  coats  were  sleeping  in  little  groups  under 
the  trees.  Horses  cropped  at  the  grass;  soldiers  were  mov- 
ing with  buckets  of  water.  Two  men,  at  the  very  edge  of 
the  Forest,  stripped  to  the  waist,  were  washing  in  a  pool 
that  was  like  a  blue  handkerchief  in  the  great  forest  of 
green.  I  found  a  little  glade,  very  bright  and  fresh,  under 
a  group  of  silver  birch,  and  there  I  lay  down  on  my  back, 
my  hands  behind  my  head,  looking  up  into  the  little  dancing 
atoms  of  blue  between  the  trees  and  the  golden  stars  of 
sunlight  that  flashed  and  sparkled  there. 

Happiness  and  peace  wrapped  me  round.  I  cannot  pre- 
tend to  disentangle  and  produce  in  proper  sequence  all 
the  thoughts  and  memories  that  floated  into  my  vision  and 
away  again,  but  I  know  that  whereas  before  thoughts  had 
attacked  me  as  though  they  were  foul  animals  biting  at 
my  brain,  now  I  seemed  myself  gently  to  invite  my  memo- 
ries. 

Many  scenes  from  my  Polchester  days  that  I  had  long 
forgotten  came  back  to  me.  I  was  indeed  startled  by  the 
clearness  with  which  I  saw  that  earlier  figure — the  very 
awkward,  careless,  ugly  boy,  listening  lazily  to  other  peo- 
ple's plans,  taking  shelter  from  life  under  a  vague  love  of 


THE  DOOR  CLOSES  313 

beauty  and  an  idle  imagination;  the  man,  awkward  and 
ugly,  sensitive  because  of  his  own  self-consciousness,  wast- 
ing his  hours  through  his  own  self -contempt  which  paralysed 
all  effort,  still  trusting  to  his  idle  love  of  beauty  to  pull  him 
through  to  some  superior  standard,  complaining  of  life,  but 
never  trying  to  get  the  better  of  it ;  then  the  man  who  came 
to  Russia  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  still  self-centred, 
always  given  up  to  timid  self-analysis,  but  responding  now 
a  little  to  the  new  scenes,  the  new  temperament,  the  new 
chances.  Then  this  man,  feeling  that  at  last  he  was  rid  of 
all  the  tiresome  encumbrances  of  the  earlier  years,  lets 
himself  go,  falls  in  love,  worships,  dreams  for  a  few  days  a 
wonderful  dream — then  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  begins 
to  fight. 

I  saw  all  the  steps  so  clearly  and  I  saw  every  little 
thought,  every  little  action,  every  little  opportunity  missed 
or  taken,  accumulating  until  the  moment  of  climax  four 
hours  before.  I  seemed  to  have  brought  Polchester  on  my 
back  to  the  war,  and  I  could  see  quite  clearly  how  each  of 
us — Marie,  Semyonov,  Nikitin,  Durward,  every  one  of  us 
— had  brought  their  private  histories  and  scenes  with  them. 
War  is  made  up,  I  believe,  not  of  shells  and  bullets,  not  of 
German  defeats  and  victories,  Russian  triumphs  or  surren- 
ders, English  and  French  battles  by  sea  and  land,  not  of 
smoke  and  wounds  and  blood,  but  of  a  million  million  past 
thoughts,  past  scenes,  streets  of  little  country  towns,  lonely 
hills,  dark  sheltered  valleys,  the  wide  space  of  the  sea,  the 
crowded  trafiic  of  New  York,  London,  Berlin,  yes,  and  of 
smaller  things  than  that,  of  little  quarrels,  of  dances  at 
Christmas  time,  of  walks  at  night,  of  dressing  for  dinner, 
of  waking  in  the  morning,  of  meeting  old  friends,  of  sick- 
nesses, theatres,  church  services,  prostitutes,  slums,  cricket- 
matches,  children,  rides  on  a  tram,  bathes  on  a  hot  morn- 


314  THE  DARK  FOREST 

ing,  sudden  unpleasant  truth  from  a  friend,  momentary 
consciousness  of  God.  .  .  . 

Death  too.  .  .  .  How  clear  now  it  was  to  me!  During 
these  weeks  I  had  wondered,  pursued  the  thought  of  Death. 
Was  it  this  ?  Was  it  that  ?  Was  it  pain  ?  Was  it  terror  ? 
I  had  feared  it,  as  for  instance  when  I  had  seen  the  dead 
bodies  in  the  Forest,  or  stood  under  the  rain  at  Kijnieff.  I 
had  laughed  at  it  as  when  I  had  gone  with  the  sanitars. 
I  had  cursed  it  as  when  Marie  Ivanovna  had  died.  I  had 
sought  it  as  I  had  done  last  night — and  always,  as  I  drew 
closer  and  closer  to  it,  fancied  it  some  fine  allegorical 
figure,  something  terrible,  appalling,  devastating.  .  .  . 
Now,  when  I  was,  as  I  believed,  at  last  face  to  face  with  it, 
I  saw  that  one  was  simply  face  to  face  with  oneself. 

Four  hours  I  have  been  writing,  and  no  sign  of  the 
wagons.  ...  I  am  writing  everything  down  as  I  remem- 
ber it,  because  these  things  are  so  clear  to  me  now  and  yet 
I  know  that  afterwards  they  will  be  changed,  twisted. 

I  was  drowsy.  I  saw  Polchester  High  Street,  Garth  in 
Roselands,  Clinton,  Truxe,  best  of  all  Rafiel.  I  went  down 
the  high  white  hill,  deep  into  the  valley,  then  along  the 
road  beside  the  stream  where  the  houses  begin,  the  hideous 
Wesleyan  Chapel  on  my  right,  "Ebenezer  Villa"  on  my 
left,  then  the  cottages  with  the  gardens,  then  the  little  street, 
the  post-office,  the  butcher's,  the  turn  of  the  road  and,  sud- 
denly, the  bay  with  the  fishing  boats  riding  at  anchor  and 
beyond  the  sea.  .  .  .  England  and  Russia!  to  their  strong 
and  confident  union  I  thought  that  I  would  give  every  drop 
of  my  blood,  every  beat  of  my  heart,  and  as  I  lay  there  I 
seemed  to  see  on  one  side  the  deep  green  lanes  at  Rafiel  and 
on  the  other  the  shining  canals,  the  little  wooden  houses, 
the  cobbler  and  the  tufted  trees  of  Petrograd,  the  sea  coast 
beyond  Truxe  and  the  wide  snow-covered  plains  beyond 


THE  DOOR  CLOSES  315 

Moscow,  the  cathedral  at  Polchester  and  the  Kremlin, 
breeding  their  children,  to  the  hundredth  generation,  for 
the  same  hopes,  the  same  beliefs,  the  same  desires. 

I  slept  in  the  sun  and  had  happy  dreams. 

I  have  re-read  these  last  pages  and  I  find  some  very  fine 
stuff  about — "giving  every  drop  of  blood,"  etc.,  etc.  Of 
course  I  am  not  that  kind  of  man.  Men,  like  Durward  and 
myself — he  resembles  me  in  many  ways,  although  he  is 
stronger  than  I  am,  and  doesn't  care  what  people  think  of 
him — are  too  analytical  and  self-critical  to  give  much  of 
their  blood  to  anybody  or  to  make  their  blood  of  very  much 
value  if  they  did. 

I  only  meant  that  I  would  do  my  best. 

Later  in  the  morning  the  firing  began  again  pretty  close. 
Andrey  Vassilievitch  came  to  me  and  wanted  to  talk  to  me. 
I  was  rather  short  with  him  because  I  was  busy.  He  wanted 
to  tell  me  that  he  hoped  I  hadn't  misunderstood  his  quarrel 
with  Nikitin  last  night.  It  had  been  nothing  at  all.  His 
nerves  had  been  rather  out  of  order.  He  was  very  much 
better  to-day,  felt  quite  another  man.  He  looked  another 
man  and  I  said  so.  He  said  that  I  did.  .  .  .  Strange,  but 
I  felt  as  I  looked  at  him  that  he  was  sickening  for  some 
bad  illness.  One  feels  that  sometimes  about  people  with- 
out being  able  to  name  a  cause. 

I  have  an  affection  for  the  little  man — but  he's  an  awful 
fool.  Well,  so  am  I.  But  fools  never  respect  fools.  .  .  . 
Strange  to  see  Semyonov.  I  had  expected  him  for  some 
reason  to  be  different  to-day.  Just  the  same,  of  course,  very 
sarcastic  to  me.  I  had  a  hole  in  one  of  my  pockets  and 
was  always  forgetting  and  putting  money  and  things  into 
it.  This  seemed  to  annoy  him.  But  to-day  nothing  mat- 
ters. Even  the  flies  do  not  worry  ma  All  the  morning 
Marie  baa  seemed  so  close  to  me.    I  have  a  strange  excite- 


316  THE  DAKK  FOREST 

ment,  the  feeling  that  one  has  when  one  is  in  a  train  that 
approaches  the  place  where  some  one  whom  one  loves  is 
waiting.  ...  I  feel  exactly  as  though  I  were  going  on  a 
journey.  .  .  . 

Since  three  o'clock  we've  had  a  lively  time.  The  attack 
began  about  five  minutes  to  three,  by  a  shell  splashing  into 
the  Forest  near  our  battery.  No  one  killed,  fortunately. 
They've  simply  stormed  away  since  then.  I  don't  seem 
to  be  able  to  realise  it  and  have  been  sitting  in  my  room 
writing  as  though  they  were  a  hundred  miles  away.  One 
gets  so  used  to  the  noise.  Everything  is  ready.  We've  got 
all  the  wounded  prepared.  If  only  the  wagons  would  come. 
.  .  .  Hallo!  a  shell  in  the  garden — cracked  one  of  these 
windows.  I  must  go  down  to  see  whether  any  one's  touched. 
...  I  put  this  in  my  bag.  To-morrow  .  .  .  and  I  am  so 
happy  that  ... 

The  end  of  Trenchard's  diary. 

These  are  the  last  words  in  Trenchard's  journal.  It  fills 
about  half  the  second  exercise  book.  The  last  pages  are 
written  in  a  hand  very  much  clearer  and  steadier  than 
the  earlier  ones. 

I  would  like  now  to  make  my  account  as  brief  as  possible. 

Upon  the  afternoon  of  August  16  we  were  all  at  Mittovo, 
extremely  anxious  about  our  friends.  Molozov  was  in  a 
great  state  of  alarm.  The  sanitars  with  the  wagons  that 
arrived  at  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  told  us  that 
a  violent  attack  in  the  intermediate  neighbourhood  of  our 
white  house  was  expected  at  any  moment.  The  wagons  were 
to  return  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  bring  every  one  away. 
They  left  about  five  o'clock  in  charge  of  Molozov  and  Goga, 
who  were  bursting  with  excitement.  I  knew  that  they  could 
not  be  with  us  again  until  at  any  rate  nine  o'clock,  but  I 


THE  DOOR  CLOSES  317 

was  so  nervous  that  at  about  seven  I  walked  out  to  the 
cross  and  watched. 

It  was  a  very  dark  night,  but  the  sky  was  simply  on  fire 
with  searchlights  and  rockets,  very  fine  behind  the  Forest 
and  reflected  in  the  river.  The  cannonade  was  incessant  but 
one  could  not  tell  how  close  it  was.  At  last,  at  about  half- 
past  eight,  I  could  endure  my  ignorance  no  longer  and  I 
went  down  the  hill  towards  the  bridge.  I  had  not  been 
there  more  than  ten  minutes  and  had  just  seen  a  shell  burst 
with  a  magnificent  spurt  of  fire  high  in  the  wood  opposite, 
when  our  wagons  suddenly  clattered  up  out  of  the  dark- 
ness. I  saw  at  once  that  something  was  wrong.  The  horses 
were  being  driven  furiously  although  there  was  now  no 
need,  as  I  thought,  for  haste.  I  could  just  see  Semyonov 
in  the  half  light  and  he  shouted  something  to  me.  I  caught 
one  of  the  wagons  as  it  passed  and  nearly  crushed  Goga. 

We  were  making  so  much  noise  that  I  had  to  shout  to 
him. 

"Well?"  I  cried. 

Then  I  saw  that  he  was  crying,  his  arms  folded  about 
his  face,  sobbing  like  a  little  boy. 

"What  is  it?"  I  shouted. 

"Mr.  .  .  ."  he  said,  "Audrey  Vassilievitch.  ..."  I 
looked  round.    One  of  the  sanitars  nodded. 

Then  there  followed  a  nightmare  of  which  I  can  remem- 
ber very  little.  It  seems  that  at  about  four  in  the  afternoon 
the  Austrians  made  a  furious  attack.  At  about  seven  our 
men  retreated  and  broke.  They  were  gradually  beaten  back 
towards  the  river.  Then,  out  of  Mittovo,  the  "Moskovsky 
Polk"  made  a  magnificent  counter-attack,  rallied  the  other 
Division  and  finally  drove  the  Austrians  right  back  to  their 
original  trenches.  From  nine  o'clock  until  twelve  we  were 
in  the  thick  of  it.    After  midnight  all  was  quiet  again.     I 


1 


318  THE  DARK  FOREST 

will  not  give  you  details  of  our  experiences  as  they  are  not 
all  to  my  present  purpose. 

At  about  half-past  one  in  the  morning  I  found  Nikitin 
standing  in  the  garden,  looking  in  front  of  him  across  the 
river,  over  which  a  very  faint  light  was  beginning  to 
break.  .  .  . 

I  touched  him  on  the  arm  and  he  started,  as  though  he 
had  been  very  far  away. 

"How  did  Trenchard  die  ?" 

He  answered  at  once,  very  readily :  "About  three  o'clock 
the  shells  were  close.  The  wagons  arrived  a  little  before 
seven  so  we  had  fully  four  anxious  hours.  We  had  had  every- 
thing ready  all  the  afternoon  and,  of  course,  just  then  we 
couldn't  go  out  to  fetch  the  wounded  and  I  think  that  the 
army  sanitars  were  working  in  another  direction,  so  that  we 
had  nothing  to  do — which  was  pretty  trying.  I  didn't  see 
Mr.  until  just  before  seven.  He  had  been  busy  upstairs 
about  something  and  then  at  the  sound  of  the  wagons  he 
came  out.  I  had  noticed  that  all  day  he  had  seemed  very  1 
much  quieter  and  more  cheerful.  He  had  been  in  a 
wretched  condition  on  the  earlier  days,  nervous  and  over- 
strained, and  I  was  very  glad  to  see  him  so  much  better. 
We  were  all  working  then,  moving  the  wounded  from  the 
house  to  the  wagons.  We  couldn't  hear  one  another  speak, 
the  noise  was  so  terrific.  Audrey  and  Mr.  were  directing 
the  sanitars  near  the  house.  Semyonov  and  I  were  near 
the  wagons.  I  had  looked  up  and  shouted  something  to 
Audrey  when  suddenly  I  heard  a  shell  that  seemed  as 
though  it  would  break  right  over  me.  I  braced  myself,  as 
one  does,  to  meet  it.  For  a  moment  I  heard  nothing  but 
the  noise;  my  nostrils  were  choked  with  the  smell  and  my 
eyes  blinded  with  dust.  But  I  knew  that  I  had  not  been  hit, 
and  I  stood  there,  rather  stupidly,  wondering.    Then  things 


THE  DOOR  CLOSES  819 

cleared.  I  saw  that  all  the  right  corner  of  the  house  was 
gone,  and  that  Semyonov  had  run  forward  and  was  kneel- 
ing on  the  ground.  With  all  the  shouting  and  firing  it  was 
very  difficult  to  realise  anything.  I  ran  to  Semyonov.  An- 
drey  .  .  .  but  I  won't  ...  I  can't  ...  he  must  have 
been  right  under  the  thing  and  was  blown  to  pieces.  Mr., 
strangely  enough,  lying  there  with  his  arms  spread  out, 
seemed  to  have  been  scarcely  touched.  But  I  saw  at  once 
when  I  came  to  him  that  he  had  only  a  few  moments  to  live. 
He  had  a  terrible  stomach  wound  but  was  suffering  no  pain, 
I  think.  Semyonov  was  kneeling,  with  his  arm  behind 
his  head,  looking  straight  into  his  eyes. 

"  'Mr.,  Mr.,'  he  said  several  times,  as  though  he  wanted 
to  rouse  him  to  consciousness.  Then,  quite  suddenly,  Mr. 
seemed  to  realise.  He  looked  at  Semyonov  and  smiled,  one 
of  those  rather  timid,  shy  smiles  that  were  so  customary 
with  him.  His  eyes  though  were  not  timid.  They  were 
filled  with  the  strangest  look  of  triumph  and  expectation. 

"The  two  men  looked  at  one  another  and  I,  seeing  that 
nothing  was  to  be  done,  waited.  Semyonov  then,  speaking 
as  though  he  and  Mr.  were  alone  in  all  this  world  of  noise 
and  confusion,  said: 

"  'You've  won,  Mr.  .  .  .  You've  won !'  He  repeated 
this  several  times  as  though  it  was  of  the  utmost  importance 
that  Mr.  should  realise  his  words. 

"Mr.,  smiling,  looked  at  Semyonov,  gave  a  little  sigh, 
and  died. 

"I  can  hear  now  the  tones  of  Semyonov's  voice.  There 
was  something  so  strange  in  its  mixture  of  irony,  bitterness 
and  kindness — just  that  rather  contemptible,  patronising 
kindness  that  is  so  especially  his. 

"We  had  no  time  to  wait  after  that.    We  got  the  wagons 


320  THE  DAEK  FOKEST 

out  by  a  miracle  without  losing  a  man.  Semyonov  was 
marvellous  in  his  self-control  and  coolness.  .  .  ." 

We  were  both  silent  for  a  long  time.  Nikitin  only  spoke 
once  again.  "Audrey!  .  .  .  My  God,  how  I  will  miss 
him !"  he  said — and  I,  who  knew  how  often  he  had  cursed 
the  little  man  and  been  impatient  with  his  importunities, 
understood.  "I  have  lost  more — far  more — ^than  Audrey," 
he  said.  "I  talked  to  you  once,  Ivan  Andreievitch.  You 
will  understand  that  I  have  no  one  now  who  can  bring  her  to 
me.  I  think  that  she  will  never  come  to  me  alone.  I  never 
needed  her  as  he  did.    No  more  dreams.  .  .  ." 

We  were  interrupted  by  Semyonov,  who,  carrying  a  lan- 
tern, passed  us.    He  saw  us  and  turned  back. 

"We  must  be  ready  by  seven,"  he  said  sharply.  "A 
general  retirement.  Ivan  Andreievitch,  do  you  know 
whether  Mr.  had  friends  or  relations  to  whom  we  can 
write  ?" 

"I  heard  of  nobody,"  I  answered. 

"Nobody?" 

"Nobody." 

Just  before  he  turned  my  eyes  met  his.  He  appeared  to 
me  as  a  man  who,  with  all  his  self-control,  was  compelling 
himself  to  meet  the  onset  of  an  immeasurable  devastating 
loss. 

He  gave  us  a  careless  nod  and  vanished  into  the  darkness. 


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